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ADAM BEDE. 


Charles Reacle says it is { the finest thing since Shakespeare 
—placed his finger on Lisbeth’s account of her home-coming 
with her husband from their marriage,— praises enthusiasti- 
cally the way in which the author handles the Saxon lan- 
guage [a strange remark, in the face of a style cumbered 
throughout her work with heavy Latin phraseology !] 
Shirley Brooks also delighted. John Murray says there has 
never been such a book.” Later— April 17 — “ I have left 
off recording the history of Adam Bede and the pleasant 
letters and words that came to me, — the success has been so 
triumphantly beyond anything I had dreamed of.” To her 
publisher and friend, Mr. John Blackwood, she writes : — “ I 
sing my Magnificat in a quiet way, and have a great deal of 
deep, silent joy ; but few authors, I suppose, who have had 
a real success, have known less of the flush and the sensa- 
tions- of triumph that are talked of as the accompaniments 
of success.” 

Adam Bede appeared on the 1st February, 1859. George 
Eliot had sold the copyright to Messrs. Blackwood for £800 ; 
but in consideration of its great success they paid her a 
second sum of £800 the following year. The book ran into 
five editions within six months of publication, and within 
twelve months 16,000 copies were sold. The fourth edition 
of 5,000 was exhausted in a fortnight. 

Some clue to the remarkable maturity and completeness 
of her art in this her first attempt at a long novel may be 
gained from a letter to Madame Bodichon, written at this 
time, in which she says : — f< I do wish much to see more of 
human life, — how can one see enough in the short years one 
has to stay in the world ? But at present my mind works 
with the most freedom and the keenest sense of poetry in my 
remotest past, and there are many strata to be worked 
through before I can begin to use, artistically , any material 
I may gather in the present.” Adam Bede was, in fact, 
the firstfruits of that rich store of memories that she had 
laid up in childhood, when she drove about the Warwick- 
shire lanes in her father’s cart, — listening to the talk of the 
villagers by the roadside and at the farms and inns, and 


ADAM BEDE. 


noting every feature of the outlying hamlets, “ whose 
groups of inhabitants,” she afterwards said, “were as 
distinctive to my imagination as if they had belonged to 
different regions of the globe.” 

Most of her readers are now familiar with the main facts 
in the life of “ George Eliot.” Mary Ann Evans — as she was 
to her own people — was born on the 22nd November, 1819, 
at the South Farm, Arbury, in the north of Warwickshire. 
Her father was Robert Evans, of Ellaston, Staffordshire ; a 
man partly of Welsh stock, which put a vein of Celtic poetry 
and passion into a nature otherwise Saxon, stolid and strong. 
A master-carpenter in his own village, he afterwards became 
land-agent to the Squire ; and it was through going with him 
on his walks, rides and drives in this capacity, that his 
daughter gained her thorough knowledge of the neighbor- 
hood, and of the people of all kinds and classes with whom 
her father had to deal. His brother William, who has been 
claimed to be, more truly than Robert, the original of 
“ Adam Bede,” was a church-builder and designer. George 
Eliot, however, was careful to disclaim any exact portraiture 
in Adam Bede, though she admitted with all frankness that 
many traits in Adam Bede’s character were suggested by 
her father’s, and that another uncle, Samuel Evans, was in 
some respects the prototype of “Seth.” But the story of 
the writing of Adam Bede, and how it grew out of her early 
memories, is best told in her own words. 

“ Journal , 1858 : The germ of Adam Bede was an anecdote 
told me by my Methodist Aunt Samuel (the wife of my 
father’s younger brother), — an anecdote from her own 
experience. We were sitting together one afternoon during 
her visit to me at Griff, probably in 1839 or 1840, when it 
occurred to her to tell me how she had visited a condemned 
criminal, — a very ignorant girl, who had murdered her 
child and refused to confess ; how she had stayed with her 
praying through the night, and how the poor creature at 
last broke out into tears, and confessed her crime. My 
aunt afterwards went with her in the cart to the place of 
execution ; and she described to me the great respect with 


ADAM BEDE. 


which this ministry of hers was regarded by the official 
people about the jail. The story, told by my aunt with 
great feeling, affected me deeply, and I never lost the im- 
pression of that afternoon and our talk together, but I 
believe I never mentioned it, through all the intervening 
years, till something prompted me to tell it to George in 
December, 1856, when I had begun to write the Scenes of 
Clerical Life. He remarked that the scene in the prison 
would make a fine element in a story : and I afterwards 
began to think of blending this and some other recollections 
of my aunt in one story, with some points in my father’s 
early life and character. The problem of construction that 
remained was to make the unhappy girl one of the chief 
dramatis persona, and connect her with the hero. At 
first I thought of making the story one of the series of 
Scenes , but afterwards when several motives had induced 
me to close these with ‘ Janet’s Repentance,’ I determined 
on making what we always called in our conversation ‘ My 
Aunt’s Story,’ the subject of a long novel, which I ac- 
cordingly began to write on the 22nd October, 1857. 

“ The character of Dinah grew out of my recollections 
of my aunt, but Dinah is not at all like my aunt, who was 
a very small black-eyed woman, and (as I was told, for I 
never heard her preach) very vehement in her style of 
preaching. She had left off preaching when I knew her, 
being probably sixty years old and in delicate health, and 
she had become, as my father told me, much more gentle 
and subdued than she had been in the days oGffier active 
ministry and bodily strength, when she could not rest with- 
out exhorting and remonstrating, in season and out of 
season. I was very fond of her, and enjoyed the few weeks 
of her stay with me greatly. She was loving and kind to 
me, and I could talk to her about my inward life, which 
was closely shut up from those usually around me. 

“ The character of Adam and one or two incidents con- 
nected with him were suggested by my father’s early life ; 
but Adam is not my father any more than Dinah is my 
aunt. Indeed there is not a single portrait in Adam Bede ; 


ADAM BEDE. 


only tlie suggestions of experience wrought up into new 
combinations. When I began to write it, the only elements 
I had determined on, besides the character of Dinah, were 
the character of Adam, his relation to Arthur Donnithorne, 
and their mutual relations to Hetty— i. e., to the girl who 
commits child-murder, — the scene in the prison being of 
course the climax towards which I worked. Everything 
else grew out of the characters and their mutual relations. 
Dinah’s ultimate relation to Adam was suggested by George 
when I had read to him the first part of the first volume : 
he was so delighted with the presentation of Dinah, and so 
convinced that the reader’s interest would center in her, 
that he wanted her to be the principal figure at the last. 
I accepted the idea at once, and from the end of the third 
chapter worked with it constantly in view.” 

Deeply as George Eliot was indebted to her husband for 
the stimulus he gave to her literary life, we cannot but feel 
that in several of her novels his advice was detrimental to the 
art of the book. In the case of the marriage of Dinah to 
Adam this has been almost universally felt. The turn which 
the plot takes when Hetty is disposed of seems an obvious 
and weak concession to the rule of a happy ending ; though 
the author herself clung to it tenaciously, saying, “ I would 
rather have my teeth drawn than give it up.” 

Some further particulars of Dinah may be gleaned from 
letters written in the following year : — “1 saw my aunt 
twice after this. Once I spent a day and a night with my 
father in the Wirks worth cottage, sleeping with my aunt, I 
remember. Our interview was less interesting than in the 
former time ; I think I was less simply devoted to religious 
ideas. And once again she came with my uncle to see me, 
when father and I were living at Foleshill ; and then there 
was some pain, for I had given up the form of Christian be- 
lief, and was in a crude state of free-thinking. . . . You 
see how she suggested Dinah, but it is not possible you 
should see as I do how entirely her individuality differed 
from Dinah’s. How curious it seems to me that people 
should think Dinah’s sermon, prayers, and speeches were 


ADAM BEDE. 


copied, when they were written with hot tears as they surged 
up in my own mind ! ” 

Another interesting side-light is thrown upon the char- 
acter of (C Dinah ” by an article sigued “ Eerrar Fenton” in 
the Gentleman’s Magazine, 1887. This writer states that the 
actual personality of “ Dinah” was taken from a beautiful 
woman preacher in the Ashbourne circuit much later, — 
Sarah Smith, a farmer’s daughter of Okeover, near Ellaston. 
She, like “ Dinah,” was a “ Banter ” or Primitive Methodist, 
while Mrs. Evans was a Wesleyan. She was preaching in 
the district shortly before Adam Bede was written, and 
the description of Dinah standing in the cart on Hayslope 
Green is said to tally exactly with the Sarah Smith of that 
day. 

It was Samuel Evans — very largely the “ Seth Bede * of 
the story — who courted and married Elizabeth Tomlinson, a 
mill-girl from Nottingham, whom he met preaching at Ash- 
bourne, disguised as “Oakburn” in Adam Bede. This was 
some time after the incident of the condemned girl, Mary 
Boce, who was executed at Nottingham when the young 
preacher was only twenty-seven. Elizabeth Evans continued 
her ministry for many years after her marriage, evading the 
law of the Methodist Conference against public-speaking for 
women by appearing only as a substitute for her husband. 
The couple lived at Wirksworth in the actual cottage de- 
scribed as Dinah’s home in “Snowfteld Wirksworth is a 
typical old Derbyshire market-town. It is set in the least 
prepossessing corner of the county, amid “ gray-stone walls 
intersecting the meager pastures, and dismal wide-scattered 
gray-stone houses on broken lands, where mines had been 
and were no longer.” It should be added that the proph- 
etess was honored in her own country, perhaps with greater 
loyalty than justice, by a tablet put up in 1873 in the 
Wesleyan meeting-house, Chapel Lane. 

Local tradition has been scarcely less busy with the other 
characters in the tale, identifying “ Bartle Massey ” with 
the schoolmaster at Ellaston, “ Mrs. Poyser” with George 
Eliot’s mother, and “ Mr. Poyser” with her uncle, George 


ADAM BEDE. 


Gough. All such legends must he taken with the reserve 
claimed by the author when she speaks of “ the vague, easily 
satisfied notion imperfectly instructed people always have of 
portraits. ” Of “ Mrs Poyser” she saj^s, replying to a crit- 
icism : — “I am sorry [the reviewer] has fallen into the mis- 
take of supposing that Mrs. Poyser’s original sayings are 
remembered proverbs ! I have no stock of proverbs in my 
memory, and there is not one thing put into Mrs. Poyser’s 
mouth that is not fresh from my own mint.” Indeed the 
whole delineation of this figure is so admirable and convincing 
as to emphasize the chief flaw in the plot, — to make us feel 
the extreme improbability that Hetty could keep her secret 
for six or eight months from so shrewd a woman as her aunt. 
Mrs. Poyser is “ not one o’ those as can see the cat i’ the 
dairy an’ wonder what she’s come after.” — “ Thee never 
saidst a word to me about it,” says her husband. — “Well, I 
aren’t like a bird-clapper, forced to make a rattle when the 
wind blows.” 

“ Hetty ” herself is a creation of genius ; treated with that 
profound tenderness towards weak and vain natures which 
is so characteristic of George Eliot’s work. Her realization 
of the shallow little farm-girl’s tragedy, — her narrow out- 
look, her trivial ambitions, the poor fears of village opinion 
which urge her flight, — is achieved with all fidelity to the 
hard prose of such a life. But, as a piece of psychological 
analysis, George Eliot never surpassed her drawing of the 
character of “ Arthur Donnithorne.” 

The friendship between Arthur and Adam was suggested 
by that of Bobert Evans with the young Squire, Francis 
Newdigate, of Wootton Hall, near Ellaston, whose steward and 
land-agent Evans became in 1799, when the Squire took 
possession of a large estate at Kirk Hallam in Derbyshire. 
The identifications of the chief places, however, are common 
to most commentators. Derbyshire is of course the “ Stony- 
shire ” and Staffordshire the “ Loamshire ” of Adam Bede> 
Dovedale is readily recognized in “Eagledale,” Ellaston 
in “Hayslope,” the “Hall Farm” in the Manor Farm, 
Mappleton. Another uncle of the author, — George Green, — ■ 


ADAM BEDE. 


was actually drowned in the “ Willow Brook ” under the 
same circumstances as “ Thias Bede.” 

Remembering her own saying, that her imagination moved 
most freely in scenes remote from her, we are not surprised 
to find that Adam Bede was written far away from its geo- 
graphical background, — partly at Richmond, hut chiefly at 
Dresden and Munich during a tour with Lewes in 1858. In 
October of the previous year she writes to a friend : — “ My 
new story haunts me a good deal. It will be a country story, 
full of the breath of cows and the scent of hay.” The first 
volume was finished at Richmond in February, 1858^ Later in 
that year this record is made in her diary: — Here [at Dres- 
den] I wrote the latter half of the second volume oiAdam Bede 
in the long mornings that our early hours — rising at six 
o’clock — secured us. We were as happy as princes — are not ; 
George writing at the far corner of the great salon , I at 
my scliranlc in my own room with closed doors. ... I began 
the second volume at Munich about the middle of April. 
. . . George expressed his fear that Adam’s part was too 
passive throughout the drama, and that it was important for 
him to be brought into more direct collision with Arthur. 
This doubt haunted me, and out of it grew the scene in the 
wood between Arthur and Adam ; the fight came to me as a 
necessity one night at the opera, when I was listening to 
“ William Tell.” Work was slow and interrupted at Munich, 
and when we left I had only written to the beginning of the 
dance on the Birthday Feast ; but at Dresden I wrote un- 
interruptedly and with great enjoyment. . . . The opening 
of the third volume — Hetty’s journey — was, I think, written 
more rapidly then the rest of the book, and was left without 
the slightest alteration of the first draught. . . . The last 
words of the third volume were written and despatched 
November the 16th, and now on the last day of the same 
month I have written this slight history of my book. I love 
it very much, and am deeply thankful to have written it, 
whatever the public may say.” Six months later, when the 
public verdict had been given, she writes to Madame Bodi- 
chon : — “ Your letter to-day gave me more joy than all the 


ADAM BEDE. 


letters or reviews or other testimonies of success that have 
come tome since the evenings when I read aloud my MS. to 
my dear, dear husband, and he laughed and cried alternately, 
and then rushed to kiss me. He is the prime blessing that 
has made all the rest possible to me.” 


Esther Wood. 


CONTENTS, 


Book L 

Chapter I^age 

I. The Workshop 3 

II. The Preaching 12 

III. After the Preaching 32 

IV. Home and its Sorrows . . 38 

V. The Rector • . . . 54 

VI. The Hall Farm 61 

VII. The Dairy 84 

VIII. A Vocation 90 

IX. Hetty’s World 98 

X. Dinah visits Lisbeth 106 

XI. In the Cottage. ,•••••••.... 118 

XII. In the Wood 126 

XIII. Evening in the Wood ••••••••.. 138 

XIV. The Return Home 143 

XV. The Two Bed-chambers . . 153 

XVI. Links 166 

2300ft II. 

XVII. In which the Story pauses a Little • . • .181 

XVIII. Church 191 

XIX. Adam on a Working Day 214 

XX. Adam Visits the Hall Farm 221 

XXI. The Night-school and the Schoolmaster • . 240 

2300ft III. 

XXn. Going to the Birthday Feast 258 

XXIII. Dinner-time 267 

XXIV. The Health-drinking 272 

XXV. The Games 280 

XXVI. The Dance 289 


CONTENTS. 


Book IV. 

Chapter Page 

XXVII. A Crisis 301 

XXVIII. A Dilemma 312 

XXIX. The Next Morning 321 

XXX. The Delivery of the Letter 329 

XXXI. In Hetty’s Bed-chamber 342 

XXXII. Mrs. Poyser “ has her Say out ” • • . . 352 

XXXIII. More Links 361 

XXXIV. The Betrothal 368 

XXXV. The Hidden Dread .......... 373 

Book V. 

XXXVI. The Journey in Hope 380 

XXXVII. The Journey in Despair 389 

XXXVIII. The Quest 402 

XXXIX. The Tidings * . . 417 

XL. The Bitter Waters spread 425 

XLI.-^The Eve of the Trial 434 

XLII. * The Morning of the Trial 440 

XLIII. v The Verdict 445 

XLIV. Arthur’s Keturn 452 

XLV. In the Prison 460 

XL VI. The Hours of Suspense 471 

XL VII. The Last Moment 477 

XL VIII. Another Meeting in the Wood 478 

3300k VI. 

XLIX. At the Hall Farm . 489 

L. In the Cottage 499 

LI. Sunday Morning 510 

LII. Adam and Dinah 523 

LIH. The Harvest Supper 532 

LIV. The Meeting on the Hill 545 

LV. Marriage Bells 551 

Epilogue 553 


ADAM BEDE. 

List of Illustrations. 


FACING PAGE 

Frontispiece — Elizabeth Evans, the Original of “ Di- 
nah Morris ” 

Chad Cranage’s Forge . 28 

Mrs. Poyser’s Farm (Ellaston) . . . . .72 

Seth Bede’s House near Wirksworth. . . . 120 

Hayslope Green, where Dinah Preached (Ellaston) 133 

Hayslope Church (Ellaston) 18 1 

Mrs. Poyser’s Farm from the Back . . . .222 

A View of “ Eagledale ” (Dovedale) .... 301 

The “ Donnithorne Arms,” Hayslope (Bromley Arms, 

Ellaston) 352 

Oakburn Market Place (Ashbourne) .... 408 

Bede Cottage, (Ellaston) The Birthplace of Adam 

(restored) 499 

Tablet to “ Dinah Bede ” and Her Husband at Wirks- 


worth 


532 
















ADAM BEDE, 


BOOK I. 


CHAPTER L 

THE WORKSHOP, 

WxTH a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sor- 
cerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer far-reaching 
visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, 
reader. With thn drop of ink at the end of my pen, I 
mil show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, 
carpenter and builder, in the village of Hayslope, as it ap- 
peared on the eighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 
1799. 

The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, 
busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting. A scent 
of pine-wood from a tent-likp pile of planks outside the open 
ioor mingled itself with the scent of the elder-bushes which 
arere spreading their summer snow close to the open window 
opposite ; the slanting sunbeams shone through the trans- 
parent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit 
up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped 
against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough 
gray shepherd-dog had made himself a pleasant bed, and was 
lying with his nose between his fore-paws, occasionally wrink- 
ling his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five work- 
men, who was carving a shield in the centre of a woodeD 


4 


ADAM BEDE. 


mantel-piece. It was to this workman that the strong bary* 
tone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and 
hammer singing — 

' 4 Awake, my soul, and with the sun 
Thy daily stage of duty run; 

Shake off dull sloth . . . " 

Here some measurement was to be taken which required more 
concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice subsided into 
a low whistle ; but it presently broke out again with renewed 
vigor — 

“ Let all thy converse be sincere. 

Thy conscience as the noonday clear/' 

Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad 
chest belonged to a large-boned muscular man nearly six feet 
high, with a back so flat and a head so well poised that when 
he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, 
he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve 
rolled up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to 
win the prize for feats of strength ; yet the long supple hand, 
with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In 
his tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified his 
name ; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its 
contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the 
dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked, prominent 
and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The 
face was large and roughly hewn, and when in repose had no 
other beauty than such as belongs to an expression of good- 
humored honest intelligence. 

It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam’s 
brother. He is nearly as tall ; he has the same type of fea- 
tures, the same hue of hair and complexion ; but the strength 
of the family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous 
the remarkable difference of expression both in form and face. 
Seth’s broad shoulders have a slight stoop ; his eyes are gray , 
his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his 
brother’s ; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding 
and benignant. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see 
that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam’s, but thin 


THE WORKSHOP. 


5 


And wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a 
coronal arch, that predominates very decidedly over the 
brow. 

The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper 
from Seth ; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam. 

The concert of the tools and Adam’s voice was at last broken 
by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been working 
intently, placed it against the wall, and said — 

“There! I ’ve finished my door to-day, anyhow.” 

The workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly red-haired 
man, known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and 
Adam said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise — 

“What! dost think thee ’st finished the door? ” 

“Ay, sure,” said Seth, with answering surprise; “what’s 
a- wan ting to ’t? ” 

A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made 
Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in the laugh- 
ter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in a 
gentler tone than before — • 

“Why, thee s’t forgot the panels.” 

The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to 
his head, and colored over brow and crown. 

“Hoorray! ” shouted a small lithe fellow, called Wiry Ben, 
running forward and seizing the door. “We’ll hang up th’ 
door at fur end o’ th’ shop an’ write on ’t ‘Seth Bede, the 
Methody, his work.’ Here, Jim, lend’s hould o’ th’ red-pot.” 

“Nonsense!” said Adam. “Let it alone, Ben Cranage. 
You’ll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some day; 
you’ll laugh o’ th’ other side o’ your mouth then.” 

“Catch me at it, Adam. It’ll be a good while afore my 
head ’s full o’ th’ Methodies,” said Ben. 

“Nay, but it’s often full o’ drink, and that ’s worse.” 

Ben, however, had now got the “ red-pot” in his hand, and 
was about to begin writing his inscription, making, by way of 
preliminary, an imaginary S in the air. 

“ Let it alone, will you? ” Adam called out, laying down 
his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. 
“ Let it alone, or I ’ll shake the soul out o’ your body.” 


6 


ADAM BEDE. 


Ben shook in Adam’s iron grasp, but, like a plucky small 
man as he was, he did n’t mean to give in. With his left 
hand he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and 
made a movement as if he would perform the feat of writing 
with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized 
his other shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against 
the wall. But now Seth spoke. 

“ Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he ’s i’ 
the right to laugh at me — I canna help laughing at myself.” 

“ I shan’t loose him, till he promises to let the door alone,” 
said Adam. 

“Come, Ben, lad,” said Seth, in a persuasive tone, “don’t 
let’s have a quarrel about it. You know Adam will have his 
way. You may ’s well try to turn a wagon in a narrow lane. 
Say you ’ll leave the door alone, and make an end on ’t.” 

“ I binna frighted at Adam,” said Ben, “ but I donna mind 
sayin’ as I ’ll let ’t alone at your askin’, Seth.” 

“ Come, that ’s wise of you, Ben,” said Adam, laughing and 
relaxing his grasp. 

They all returned to their work now ; but Wiry Ben, hav- 
ing had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving 
that humiliation by a success in sarcasm. 

“ Which was ye thinkin’ on, Seth,” he began — “ the pretty 
parson’s face or her sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels ? ” 

“ Come and hear her, Ben,” said Seth, good-humoredly ; 
“ she ’s going to preach on the Green to-night ; happen ye ’d 
get something to think on yourself then, instead o’ those 
wicked songs you’re so fond on. Ye might get religion, and 
that’ud be the best day’s earnings y’ ever made.” 

“ All i’ good time for that, Seth ; I ’ll think about that when 
I ’m a-goin’ to settle i’ life ; bachelors does n’t want such heavy 
earnins. Happen I shall do the coortin’ an’ the religion both 
together, as ye do, Seth ; but ye wouldna ha’ me get converted 
an’ chop in atween ye an’ the pretty preacher, an’ carry her 
aff?” 

“ No fear o’ that, Ben ; she ’s neither for you nor for me to 
win, I doubt. Only you come and hear her, and you won’t 
speak lightly on her agaia*” 


THE WORKSHOP. 


7 


“ Well, I ’n half a mind t’ ha’ a look at her to-night, if there 
is n’t good company at th’ Holly Bush. What ’ll sne take for 
her text ? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna 
come up i’ time for ’t. Will ’t be, — What come ye out for to 
see ? A prophetess ? Yea, I say unto you, and more than a 
prophetess — a uncommon pretty young woman.” 

“ Come, Ben,” said Adam, rather sternly, “ vou let the words 
o’ the Bible alone ; you ’re going too far now.” 

“ What ! are ye a-turnin’ roun’, Adam ? I thought ye war 
dead again th’ women preachin’, a while agoo ? ” 

“ Nay, I ’m not turnin’ noway. I said nought about the 
women preachin’ : I said, You let the Bible alone : you ’ve got 
a jest-book, han’t you, as you ’re rare and proud on ? Keep 
your dirty fingers to that.” 

“ Why, y’ are gettin’ as big a saint as Seth. Y’ are goin’ to 
th’ preachin’ to-night, I should think. Ye ’ll do finely t’ lead 
the singin’. But I don’ know what Parson Irwine ’ull say at 
his gran’ favright Adam Bede a-turnin’ Methody.” 

“ Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I’m not 
a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you are — though it ’s 
like enough you ’ll turn to something worse. Mester Irwine ’s 
got more sense nor to meddle wi’ people’s doing as they like 
in religion. That ’s between themselves and God, as he ’s said 
to me many a time.” 

“ Ay, ay ; but he ’s none so fond o’ your dissenters, for al 1 
that.” 

“ Maybe; I’m none so fond o’ Josh Tod’s thick ale, but ] 
lon’t hinder you from making a fool o’ yourself wi ’t.” 

There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam’s, but Seth said, 
rery seriously — 

“ Hay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody’s religion ’s 
like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters 
and the Methodists have got the root o’ the matter as well as 
the church folks.” , 

“Nay. Seth, lad ; I’m not for laughing at no man’s religion. 
Let ’em follow their consciences, that ’s all. Only I think it 
’ud be better if their consciences ’ud let ’em stay quiet i’ the 
church there ’s a deal to be learnt there. And there ’s such 


8 


ADAM BEDE. 


a thing as being over-speritial ; we must have something be* 
side Gospel i’ this world. Look at the canals, an’ th’ aque- 
ducs, an’ th’ coal-pit engines, and Arkwright’s mills there at 
Cromford ; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make 
them things, I reckon. But t’ hear some o’ them preachers, 
you ’d think as a man must be doing nothing all ’s life but 
shutting’s eyes and looking what ’s a-going on inside him. I 
know a man must have the love o’ God in his soul, and the 
Bible ’s God’s word. But what does the Bible say ? Why, it 
says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the 
tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as 
wanted a nice hand. And this is my way o’ looking at iti 
there ’s the sperrit o’ God in all things and all times — week- 
day as well as Sunday — and i’ the great works and inventions, 
and i’ the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with 
our headpieces and our hands as well as with our souls ; and if 
a man does bits o’ jobs out o’ working hours — builds a oven 
for ’s wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at; 
his bit o’ garden and makes two potatoes grow istead o’ one, he ’s 
doing more good, and he ’s just as near to God, as if he was 
running after some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning.” 

“ Well done, Adam ! ” said Sandy Jim, who had paused 
from his planing to shift his planks while Adam was speak- 
ing ; “ that ’s the best sarmunt I ’ve heared this long while. 
By th’ same token, my wife ’s been a-plaguin’ on me to build 
her a oven this twelvemont.” 

u There ’s reason in what thee say’st, Adam,” observed Seth, 
gravely. “But thee know’st thyself as it’s hearing the 
preachers thee find’st so much fault with has turned many 
an idle fellow into an industrious un. It ’s the preacher as 
empties th’ alehouse ; and if a man gets religion, he ’ll do his 
work none the worse for that.” 

“ On’y he ’ll lave the panels out o’ th’ doors sometimes, eh. 
Seth ? ” said Wiry Ben. 

“ Ah, Ben, you ’ve got a joke again’ me as ’ll last you your 
life. But it isna religion as was i’ fault there ; it was Seth 
Bede, as was allays a wool-gathering chap, and religion hasns 
mred him, the more ’s the pity.” 


THE WORKSHOP. 


“Ne’er heed me, Seth,” said Wiry Ben, “y’ are a downright 
good-hearted chap, panels or no panels ; an’ ye donna set up 
your bristles at every bit o’ fun, like some o’ your kin, as is 
mayhap cliverer.” 

“ Seth, lad,” said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm 
against himself, “ thee mustna take me unkind. I wasna 
driving at thee in what I said just now. Some ’s got one way 
o’ Looking at things and some ’s got another.” 

“Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean’st me no unkindness,” said 
Seth, “ I know that well enough. Thee ’t like thy dog Gyp — 
thee bark’st at me sometimes, but thee allays lick’st my hand 
after.” 

All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the 
church clock began to strike six. Before the first stroke had 
died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching 
his jacket ; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and 
thrown his screw-driver into his tool-basket ; Mum Taft, who, 
true to his name, had kept silence throughout the previous 
conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act 
of lifting it ; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and 
was putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone 
had gone on with his work as if nothing had happened. But 
observing the cessation of the tools, he looked up, and said, in 
a tone of indignation — 

“ Look there, now ! I can’t abide to see men throw away 
their tools i’ that way, the minute the clock begins to strike, 
as if they took no pleasure i’ their work, and was afraid o’ 
doing a stroke too much.” 

Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in 
his preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and 
said — 

“ Ay, ay, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y’ are 
six-an’-forty like me, istid o’ six-an’-twenty, ye wonna be so 
flush o’ workin’ for nought.” 

“Nonsense,” said Adam, still wrathful; “what ’s age got to 
do with it, I wonder ? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. 
I hate to see a man’s arms drop down as if he was shot, before 
the clock’s fairly struck, he’d never a bit o’ pride 


10 


ADAM BEDE. 


and delight in ’s work. The very grindstone hill go on turn 
ing a bit after you loose it.” 

“ Bodderation, Adam ! ” exclaimed Wiry Ben ; “ lave a chap 
aloon, will ’ee ? Ye war a-finding faut wi’ preachers a while 
agoo — y 9 are fond enough o’ preachin’ yoursen. Ye may 
like work better nor play, but I like play better nor workj 
that ’ll ’commodate ye — it laves ye th’ more to do.” 

With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry 
Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly 
followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and 
looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say 
something. 

“ Shalt go home before thee go’st to the preaching ? ” Adam 
asked, looking up. 

“ Nay ; I ’ve got my hat and things at Will Maskery’s. I 
shan’t be home before going for ten. I ’ll happen see Dinah 
Morris safe home, if she ’s willing. There ’s nobody comes 
with her from Poyser’s, thee know ’st.” 

“ Then I ’ll tell mother not to look for thee,” said Adam. 

“ Thee artna going to Poyser’s thyself to-night ? ” said Seth, 
rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop. 

“ Nay, I ’m going to th’ school.” 

Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up 
his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed the 
other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his 
ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist his apron round his 
waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his master’s 
face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he 
would doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that 
vehicle for his emotions, he was, like many other worthy per- 
sonages, destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had 
made him. 

“ What ! art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp ? ” said Adam, 
with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke 
to Seth. 

Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, 
“Of course.” Poor fellow, he had not a great range o i 
expression. 


THE WORKSHOP. 


11 


The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam’s 
and Seth’s dinner; and no official, walking in procession, 
could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances 
than Gyp with his basket, trotting at his master’s heels. 

On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the 
key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of the 
woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth gray thatch and 
buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. 
The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the door- 
stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the 
door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen 
gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled 
fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by 
an illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old 
woman’s sight seemed to be dim, for she did not recognize 
Adam till he said — 

“ Here ’s the key, Dolly ; lay it down for me in the house, 
will you ? ” 

“ Ay, sure ; but wunna ye come in, Adam ? Miss Mary ’s 
i’ th’ house, and Mester Burge ’ull be back anon ; he ’d be 
glad t’ ha’ ye to supper wi’m, I ’ll be ’s warrand.” 

“No, Dolly, thank you ; I ’m off home. Good evening.” 

Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, 
out of the workyard, and along the high-road leading away 
from the village and down to the valley. As he reached the 
foot of the slope, an elderly horseman, with his portmanteau 
strapped behind him, stopped his horse when Adam had passed 
him, and turned round to have another long look at the stal- 
vart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue 
vorsted stockings. 

Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting pres- 
ently struck across the fields, and now broke out into the tuno 
which had all day long been running in his head : — 

" Let all thy converse be sincere, 

Thy conscience as the noonday clear ; 

For God’s all-seeing eye surveys 

Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways ” 


12 


ADAM BEDE. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE PREACHING. 

About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance 
of excitement in the village of Hay slope, and through the 
whole length of its little street, from the Donnithorne Arms 
to the churchyard gate, the inhabitants had evidently been 
drawn out of their houses by something more than the pleas- 
are of lounging in the evening sunshine. The Donnithorne 
Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small farm- 
yard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was 
a pretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a 
promise of good feed for himself and his horse, which might 
well console him for the ignorance in which the weather- 
beaten sign left him as to the heraldic bearings of that ancient 
family, the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson, the landlord, had been 
for some time standing at the door with his hands in his pock- 
ets, balancing himself on his heels and toes, and looking 
towards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the 
middle of it, which he knew to be the destination of certain 
grave-looking men and women whom he had observed passing 
at intervals. 

Mr. Casson’s person was by no means of that common type 
which can be allowed to pass without description. On a 
front view it appeared to consist principally of two spheres, 
bearing about the same relation to each other as the earth and 
;he moon ; that is to say, the lower sphere might be said, at a 
rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the upper, which 
naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and tribu- 
tary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr. Casson’s head 
was not at all a melancholy-looking satellite, nor was it a 
“ spotty globe,” as Milton has irreverently called the moon ; 
on the contrary, no head and face could look more sleek and 
healthy, and its expression, which was chiefly confined to a 
pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight knot and inter* 


13 


THE PEE ACHING. 

raptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth mem 
tion, was one of jolly contentment, only tempered by that 
sense of personal dignity which usually made itself felt in his 
attitude and bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be 
considered excessive in a man who had been butler to “ the 
family ” for fifteen years, and who, in his present high posi* 
'ion, was necessarily very much in contact with his inferiors. 
How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of his 
curiosity by walking towards the Green, was the problem that 
Mr. Casson had been revolving in his mind for the last five 
minutes ; but when he had partly solved it by taking his 
hands jut of his pockets, and thrusting them into the arm- 
holes of his waistcoat, by throwing his head on one side, and 
providing himself with an air of contemptuous indifference to 
whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts were di- 
verted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw 
pausing to have another look at our friend Adam, and who 
now pulled up at the door of the Donnithorne Arms. 

“ Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler,” said the 
traveller to the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the 
yard at the sound of the horse’s hoofs. 

“ Why, what ’s up in your pretty village, landlord ? ” he 
continued, getting down. “ There seems to be quite a stir.” 

“ It ’s a Methodis preaching, sir ; it ’s been gev hout as a 
young woman ’s a-going to preach on the Green,” answered 
Mr. Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, with a slightly 
mincing accent. “Will you please to step in, sir, an’ tek 
somethink ? ” 

“No, I must be getting on to Rosseter. I only want a, 
drink for my horse. ‘And what does your parson say, I 
wonder, to a young woman preaching just under his nose ? ” 

“ Parson Irwine, sir, does n’t live here ; he lives at Brox’on, 
over the hill there. The parsonage here ’s a tumble-down 
place, sir, not fit for gentry to live in. He comes here to 
preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an’ puts up his hoss here. 
It ’s a gray cob, sir, an’ he sets great store by ’t. He ’s allays 
put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed the Donni- 
thorne Arms. I ’m not this countryman, you may tell by my 


14 


ADAM BEDE. 


tongue, sir. They ’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country, sir; the 
gentry ’s hard work to hunderstand ’em. I was brought hup 
among the gentry, sir, an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I 
was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for 
4 hey n’t you ? ’ — the gentry, you know, says, 4 hev n’t you ’ 

— well, the people about here says ‘hanna yey.’ It ’s what 
they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That ’s what 
I ’ve heared Squire Donnithorne say many a time ; it ’s the 
dileck, says he.” 

44 Ay, ay,” said the stranger, smiling. 44 1 know it very 
well. But you ’ve not got many Methodists about here, surely 

— in this agricultural spot ? I should have thought there 
would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to be found 
about here. You ’re all farmers, are n’t you ? The Methodists 
can seldom lay much hold on them ” 

44 Why, sir, there ’s a pretty lot o’ workmen round about, 
sir. There ’s Mester Burge as owns the timber-yard over 
there, he underteks a good bit o’ building an’ repairs. An’ 
there ’s the stone-pits not far off. There ’s plenty of emply i’ 
this country-side, sir. An’ there ’s a fine batch o’ Methodisses 
at Treddles’on — that ’s the market-town about three mile off 

— you ’ll maybe ha’ come through it, sir. There ’s pretty 
nigh a score of ’em on the Green now, as come from there. 
That ’s where our people gets it from, though there ’s only 
two men of ’em in all Hayslope: that ’s Will Maskery, the 
wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at the 
carpenterin’.” 

44 The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?” 

44 Nay, sir, she comes out o’ Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty 
mile off. But she ’ a-visitin’ hereabout at Mester Poyser’s at 
the Hall Farm — it ’s them barns an’ big walnut-trees, right 
away to the left, sir. She ’s own niece to Poyser’s wife, an’ 
they ’ll be fine an’ vexed at her for making a fool of herself 
i’ that way. But I ’ve heared as there ’s no holding these 
Methodisses when the maggit ’s once got i’ their head : many 
of ’em goes stark starin’ mad wi’ their religion. Though this 
young woman ’s quiet enough to look at, by what I can make 
out; I ’ve not seen her myself.” 


THE PREACHING. 


15 


“ Well, I wish. I had time to wait and see her, but I must 
get on. I ’ve been out of my way for the last twenty min- 
utes, to have a look at that place in the valley. It ’s Squire 
Donnithorne’s, I suppose ? ” 

“Yes, sir, that’s Donuithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks 
there, is n’t there, sir ? I should know what it is, sir, for 
I ’ve lived butler there a-going i’ fifteen year. It ’s Captain 
Donnithorne as is th’ heir, sir — Squire Donnithorne’s grand- 
son. He ’ll be cornin’ of hage this ’ay-’arvest, sir, an’ we shall 
hev fine doins. He owns all the land about here, sir, Squire 
Donnithorne does.” 

“Well, it’s a pretty spot, whoever may own it,” said the 
traveller, mounting his horse ; “ and one meets some fine 
strapping fellows about too. I met as fine a young fellow as 
ever I saw in my life, about half an hour ago, before I came 
up the hill — a carpenter, a tall broad-shouldered fellow with 
black hair and black eyes, marching along like a soldier. We 
want such fellows as he to lick the French.” 

“ Ay, sir, that ’s Adam Bede, that is, I ’ll be bound — Thias 
Bede’s son — everybody knows him hereabout. He ’s an un- 
common clever stiddy fellow, an’ wonderful strong. Lord 
bless you, sir — if you ’ll hexcuse me for saying so — he can 
walk forty mile a -day, an’ lift a matter o’ sixty ston’. He’s 
an uncommon favorite wi’ the gentry, sir : Captain Donni- 
thorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi’ him. But he ’s 
a little lifted up an’ peppery -like.” 

“ Well, good evening to you, landlord ; I must get on.” 

“Your servant, sir; good evenin’.” 

The traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, 
but when he approached the Green, the beauty of the view 
that lay on his right hand, the singular contrast presented by 
the groups of villagers with the knot of Methodists near the 
maple, and perhaps yet more, curiosity to see the young fe- 
male preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get to the 
end of his journey, and he paused. 

The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it 
the road branched off in two diiections, one leading farther up 
the hill by the church, and the ether winding gently down 


16 


ADAM BEDE. 


towards the valley. On the side of the G reen that led towards 
the church, the broken line of thatched cottages was continued 
nearly to the churchyard gate; but on the opposite, north- 
western side, there was nothing to obstruct the view of gently- 
swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of 
distant hill. That rich undulating district of Loamshire to 
which Hayslope belonged, lies close to a grim outskirt of 
Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren hills as a pretty bloom- 
ing sister may sometimes be seen linked in the arm of a 
rugged, tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours 5 ride 
the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, inter- 
sected by lines of cold gray stone, for one where his road 
wound under the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled 
with hedgerows and long meadow-grass and thick corn; and 
where at every turn he came upon some fine old country-seat 
nestled in the valley or crowning the slope, some homestead 
with its long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks, 
some gray steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees 
and thatch and dark- red tiles. It was just such a picture as 
this last that Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as 
he began to mount the gentle slope leading to its pleasant up- 
lands, and now from his station near the Green he had before 
him in one view nearly all the other typical features of this 
pleasant land. High up against the horizon were the huge 
conical masses of hill, like giant mounds intended to fortify 
this region of corn and grass against the keen and hungry 
winds of the north; not distant enough to be clothed in pur- 
ple mystery, but with sombre greenish sides visibly specked 
with sheep, whose motion was only revealed by memory, not 
detected by sight; wooed from day to day by the changing 
hours, but responding with no change in themselves — left for- 
ever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged 
gleams of the April noonday, the parting crimson glory of the 
ripening summer sun. And directly below them the eye 
rested on a more advanced line of hanging woods, divided by 
bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet deep- 
ened into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but still 
showing the warm tints of the young oak and the tender green 


THE PREACHING 


17 


of the ash and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods 
grew thicker, as if they had rolled down and hurried together 
from the patches left smooth on the slope, that they might 
take the better care of the tall mansion which lifted its para« 
pets and sent its faint blue summer smoke among them. 
Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassy 
pool in front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of 
meadow would not let our traveller see them from the village 
green. He saw instead a foreground which was just as lovely 
— the level sunlight lying like transparent gold among the 
gently-curving stems of the feathered grass and the tall red 
sorrel, and the white umbels of the hemlocks lining the bushy 
hedgerows. It was that moment in summer when the sound 
of the scythe being whetted makes us cast more lingering 
looks at the flower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows. 

He might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he 
had turned a little in his saddle and looked eastward, beyond 
Jonathan Burge’s pasture and woody ard towards the green 
cornfields and walnut-trees of the Hall Farm ; but apparently 
there was more interest for him in the living groups close at 
hand. Every generation in the village was there, from old 
“ Feytlier Taft ” in his brown worsted nightcap, who was bent 
nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a 
long while, leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with 
their little round heads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. 
Now and then there was a new arrival ; perhaps a slouching 
laborer, who, having eaten his supper, came out to look at the 
unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing to hear what 
any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no means ex 
cited enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join 
!the Methodists on the Green, and identify themselves in that 
way with the expectant audience, for there was not one of 
them that would not have disclaimed the imputation of having 
come out to hear the “preacher-woman,” — they had only 
come out to see “what war a-goin’ on, like,” The men were 
chiefly gathered in the neighborhood of the blacksmith’s shop. 
But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never 
swarm : a whisper is unknown among them, and they seem 

VOL. I- 


18 


ADAM BEDE, 


almost as incapable of an undertone as a cow or a stag. Youi 
true rustic turns his back on bis interlocutor, throwing a que& 
tion over his shoulder as if he meant to run away from the 
answer, and walking a step or two farther off when the inter- 
est of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity 
of the blacksmith’s door was by no means a close one, and 
formed no screen in front of Chad Cranage, the blacksmith 
himself, who stood with his black brawny arms folded, lean 
ing against the door-post, and occasionally sending forth a 
bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a marked pref- 
erence over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced 
the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life 
under a new form. But both styles of wit were treated with 
equal contempt by Mr. Joshua Rann. Mr. Rann’s leathern 
apron ana subdued griminess can leave no one in any doubt 
that he is the village shoemaker ; the thrusting out of his chin 
and stomach, and the twirling of his thumbs, are more subtle 
indications, intended to prepare unwary strangers for the dis- 
covery that they are in the presence of the parish clerk. “ Old 
Joshway,” as he is irreverently called by his neighbors, is in a 
state of simmering indignation; but he has not yet opened 
his lips except to say, in a resounding bass undertone, like the 
tuning of a violoncello, “ Sehon, King of' the Amorites: for 
His mercy endureth forever ; and Og the King of Basan : for 
His mercy endureth forever,” — a quotation which may seem 
to have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with 
every other anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a 
natural sequence. Mr. Rann was inwardly maintaining the 
dignity of the Church in the face of this scandalous irruption 
of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up with his own 
sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturally 
suggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last 
Sunday afternoon. 

The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite 
to the edge of the Green, where they could examine more 
closely the Quaker-like costume and odd deportment of the 
female Methodists. Underneath the maple there was a small 
cart which had been brought from the wheelwright’s to serve 


THE PREACHING. 


19 


as a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few 
chairs had been placed. Some of the Methodists were resting 
on these, with their eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or medi- 
tation. Others chose to continue standing, and had turned 
their faces towards the villagers with a look of melancholy 
compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy Cranage, the 
blacksmith’s buxom daughter, known to her neighbors as 
Chad’s Bess, who wondered “ why the folks war a-makin’ faces 
a that ’ns.” Chad’s Bess was the object of peculiar compas- 
sion, because her hair, being turned back under a cap which 
was set at the top of her head, expose.d to view an ornament 
of which she was much prouder than of her red cheeks — 
namely, a pair of large round ear-rings with false garnets in 
them, ornaments contemned not only by the Methodists, but 
by her own cousin and namesake Timothy’s Bess, who, with 
much cousinly feeling, often wished “ them ear-rings ” might 
come to good. 

Timothy’s Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation 
among her familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and 
possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is 
enough to mention the heavy baby she was rocking in her 
arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in knee-breeches, and red 
legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck by way of drum, 
and was very carefully avoided by Chad’s small terrier. This 
young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy’s 
Bess’s Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any 
false modesty, had advanced beyond the group of women and 
children, and was walking round the Methodists, looking up 
in their faces with his mouth wide open, and beating his stick 
against the milk-can by way of musical accompaniment. But 
one of the elderly women bending down to take him by the 
shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy’s Bess’s 
Ben first kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and 
sought refuge behind his father’s legs. 

“ Ye gallows young dog,” said Sandy Jim, with some pater- 
nal pride, “ if ye donna keep that stick quiet, I ’ll tek it from 
ye. What d’ ye mane by kickin’ foulks ? ” 

“Here! gie him here to me, Jim,” said Chad Cranage; 


20 


ADAM BEDE. 


“I’ll tie him up an’ shoe him as I do th’ bosses. Well, Hes- 
ter Casson,” he continued, as that personage sauntered up to- 
wards the group of men, “ how are ye t’ naight ? Are ye coom 
t’ help groon ? They say folks allays groon when they ’re 
hearkenin’ to th’ Methodys, as if they war bad i’ th’ inside. I 
mane to groon as loud as your cow did th’ other naight, an’ 
then the praicher ’ull think I ’m i’ th’ raight way.” 

“ I ’d advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad,” said 
Mr. Casson, with some dignity ; “ Poyser would n’t like to hear 
as his wife’s niece was treated any ways disrespectful, for all 
he may n’t be fond of her taking on herself to preach.” 

“ Ay, an’ she ’s a pleasant-looked un too,” said Wiry Ben. 
“ I ’ll stick up for the pretty women preachin’ ; I know they ’d 
persuade me over a deal sooner nor th’ ugly men. I shouldna 
wonder if I turn Methody afore the night ’s out, an’ begin to 
coort the preacher, like Seth Bede.” 

“ Why, Seth ’s looking rether too high, I should think,” said 
Mr. Casson. “ This woman’s kin would n’t like her to demean 
herself to a common carpenter.” 

“ Tchu ! ” said Ben, with a long treble intonation, “ what ’s 
folk’s kin got to do wi’t ? — Not a chip. Poyser’s wife may 
turn her nose up an’ forget bygones, but this Dinah Morris, 
they tell me, ’s as poor as iver she was — works at a mill, an ’s 
much ado to keep hersen. A strappin’ young carpenter as is 
a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match for 
her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi’ Adam Bede as if 
he war a nevvy o’ their own.” 

“ Idle talk ! idle talk ! ” said Mr. J oshua Rann. “ Adam an’ 
Seth ’s two men ; you wunna fit them two wi’ the same last.” 

“Maybe,” said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, “but Seth’s the 
lad for me, though he war a Methody twice o’er. I’m fair 
beat wi’ Seth, for I ’ve been teasin’ him iver sin’ we ’ve been 
workin’ together, an’ he bears me no more malice nor a lamb. 
An’ he ’s a stout-hearted feller too, for when we saw the old tree 
all a-fire a-comin’ across the fields one night, an’ we thought as it 
war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he up to ’t as bold as 
a constable. Why, there he comes out o’ Will Maskery’s ; an* 
there ’s Will hisself, lookin’ as meek as if he couldna knock a 


THE PREACHING. 


21 


nail o’ the head for fear o’ hurtin’t. An’ there ’s the pretty 
preacher-woman ! My eye, she ’s got her bonnet off. I mun 
go a bit nearer.” 

Several of the men followed Ben’s lead, and the traveller 
pushed his horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather 
quickly, and in advance of her companions, towards the cart 
under the maple-tree. While she was near Seth’s tall figure, 
she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart, and was 
away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle height 
of woman, though in reality she did not exceed it — an effect 
which was due to the slimness of her figure, and the simple 
line of her black stuff dress. The stranger was struck with 
surprise as he saw her approach and mount the cart — surprise, 
not so much at the feminine delicacy of her appearance, as at 
the total absence of self-consciousness in her demeanor. He 
had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured 
step, and a demure solemnity of countenance ; he had felt sure 
that her face would be mantled with the smile of conscious 
saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness. He 
knew but two types of Methodist — the ecstatic and the bil- 
ious. But Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to 
market, and seemed as unconscious of her outward appear- 
ance as a little boy : there was no blush, no tremulousnebs, 
which said, “ I know you think me a pretty woman, too young 
to preach;” no casting up or down of the eyelids, no compres- 
sion of the lips, no attitude of the arms, that said, “ But you 
must think of me as a saint.” She held no book in her un 
gloved hands, but let them hang down lightly crossed before 
her, as she stood and turned her gray eyes on the people. 
There was no keenness in the eyes ; they seemed rather to be 
shedding love than making observations ; they had the liquid 
look which tells that the mind is full of what it has to give 
out, rather than impressed by external objects. She stood 
with her left hand towards the descending sun, and leafy 
boughs screened her from its rays ; but in this sober light the 
delicate coloring of her face seemed to gather a calm vividness, 
like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of a uniform 
transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin, 


ADAM BEDE. 


a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendic- 
ular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting between 
smooth locks of pale reddish hair. The hair was drawn 
straight back behind the ears, and covered, except for an inch 
or two, above the brow, by a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of 
the same color as the hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly 
pencilled ; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abun- 
dant ; nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of 
those faces that make one think of white flowers with light 
touches of color on their pure petals. The eyes had no pecul- 
iar beauty, beyond that of expression ; they looked so simple, 
so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light 
sneer could help melting away before their glance. Joshua 
Eann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in 
order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad 
Cranage lifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his head , 
and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had the pluck to think of 
courting her. 

“ A sweet woman/’ the stranger said to himself, “ but surely 
nature never meant her for a preacher.” 

Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has 
theatrical properties, and, with the considerate view of facili 
tating art and psychology, “ makes up ” her characters, so that 
there may be no mistake about them. But Dinah began to 
speak. 

“ Dear friends,” she said, in a clear but not loud voice, “ l«d 
tts pray for a blessing.” 

She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little, 
continued in the same moderate tone, as if speaking to some 
one quite near her : — 

“ Saviour of sinners ! when a poor woman, laden with sins, 
went out to the well to draw water, she found Thee sitting at the 
well. She knew Thee not ; she had not sought Thee ; her mind 
was dark ; her life was unholy. But Thou didst speak to her, 
Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show her that her life lay open 
before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her that blessing 
which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou art in the midst of 
us, and Thou knowest all men : if there is any here like that 


THE PREACHING. 


23 


poor woman — if their minds are dark, their lives nnholy — 
if they have come out not seeking Thee, not desiring to be 
taught ; deal with them according to the free mercy which 
Thou didst show to her. Speak to them, Lord ; open their ears 
to my message ; bring their sins to their minds, and make 
them thirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to give. 

Lord, Thou art with Thy people still : they see Thee in the 
night-watches, and their hearts burn within them as Thoutalk- 
est with them by the way. And Thou art near to those who 
have not known Thee : open their eyes that they may see Thee 
— see Thee weeping over them, and saying ‘ Ye will not come 
unto me that ye might have life ’ — see Thee hanging on the 
cross and saying, ‘ Father, forgive them, for they know not 
what they do ’ — see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy 
glory to judge them at the last. Amen.” 

Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the 
group of villagers, who were now gathered rather more closely 
on her right hand. 

“Dear friends,” she began, raising her voice a little, “you 
have all of you been to church, and I think you must have 
heard the clergyman read these words : ‘ The Spirit of the Lord 
is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to 
the poor.’ Jesus Christ spoke those words — he said he came 
to preach the Gospel to the poor : I don’t know whether you 
ever thought about those words much ; but I will tell you 
when I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a 
sort of evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as 
brought me up, took me to hear a good man preach out of 
doors, just as we are here. I remember his face well : he was a 
rery old man, and had very long white hair ; his voice was very 
soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had ever heard before. 
I was a little girl, and scarcely knew anything, and this old 
man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybody 
I had ever seen before, that I thought he had perhaps come 
down from the sky to preach to us, and I said, ‘ Aunt, will he 
go back to the sky to-night, like the picture in the Bible ?* 

“ That man of God was Mr. Wesley, who spent his life in 
doing what our blessed Lord did — preaching the Gospel to 


24 


ADAM BEDE. 


the poor — and he entered into his rest eight years ago. 3 
came to know more about him years after, but I was a foolish 
thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thing he told 
us in his sermon. He told us as ‘ Gospel 9 meant ‘ good news ’ 
The Gospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about God. 

“Think of that now! Jesus Christ did really come dowB 
from heaven, as I, like a silly child, thought Mr. Wesley did | 
and what he came down for, was to tell good news about God 
to the poor. Why, you and me, dear friends, are poor, W6 
have been brought up in poor cottages, and have been reared 
on oat-cake, and lived coarse ; and we have n’t been to school 
much, nor read books, and we don’t know much about any- 
thing but what happens just round us. We are just the sort 
of people that want to hear good news. For when anybody ’s 
well off, they don’t much mind about hearing news from dis- 
tant parts ; but if a poor man or woman ’s in trouble and has 
hard work to make out a living, they like to have a letter to 
tell ’em they ’ve got a friend as will help ’em. To be sure, we 
can’t help knowing something about God, even if we ’ve never 
heard the Gospel, the good news that our Saviour brought us. 
For we know everything comes from God : don’t you say 
almost every day, ‘This and that will happen, please God;’ 
and ‘We shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God to send 
us a little more sunshine ’ ? We know very well we are alto- 
gether in the hands of God : we did n’t bring ourselves into 
the world, we can’t keep ourselves alive while we ’re sleeping ; 
the daylight, and the wind, and the corn, and the cows to give 
us milk— everything we have comes from God. And he gave 
us our souls, and put love between parents and children, and 
husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to know 
about God ? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what 
he will : we are lost, as if we were struggling in great waters, 
when we try to think of him. 

“ But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this : Can 
God take much notice of us poor people ? Perhaps he only 
made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It 
does n’t cost him much to give us our little handful of victual 
and bit of clothing ; but how do we know he cares for us any 


THE PREACHING. 


25 


more than we care for the worms and things in the garden, so 
as we rear our carrots and onions ? Will God take care of us 
when we die ? and has he any comfort for us when we are 
lame and sick and helpless ? Perhaps, too, he is angrj 7 with 
us ; else why does the blight come, and the bad harvests, and 
the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble ? For our life is 
full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad 
too. How is it ? how is it ? 

“ Ah ! dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about 
God ; and what does other good news signify if we have n’t 
that *C For everything else comes to an end, and when we die 
we leave it all. But God lasts when everything else is gone. 
What shall we do if he is not our friend ? ” 

Then Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and 
how the mind of God towards the poor had been made mani- 
fest in the life of Jesus, dwelling on its lowliness and its acts 
of mercy. 

“ So you see, dear friends,” she went on, “ Jesus spent his 
time almost all in doing good to poor people ; he preached 
out of doors to them, and he made friends of poor workmen, 
and taught them and took pains with them. Not but what he 
did good to the rich too, for he was full of love to all men, 
only he saw as the poor were more in want of his help. So he 
cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked 
miracles, to feed the hungry, because, he said, he was sorry 
for them ; and he was very kind to the little children, and 
comforted those who had lost their friends : and he spoke very 
tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry for their sins. 

) “ Ah ! would n’t you love such a man if you saw him — if he 

was here in this village ? What a kmd heart he must have ! 
What a friend he would be to go to in trouble ! How pleasant 
it must be to be taught by him. 

“ Well, dear friends, who was this man ? Was he only a 
good man — a very good man, and no more — like our dear 
Mr. Wesley, who has been taken from us ? ... He was the 
Son of God — ‘in the image of the Father,’ the Bible says; 
that means, just like God, who is the beginning and end of 
all things — the God we want to know about. So then, 


26 


ADAM BEDE. 


the love that Jesus showed to the poor is the same love that 
God has for us. We can understand what Jesus felt, because 
he came in a body like ours, and spoke words such as we 
speak to each other. We were afraid to think what God was 
before — the God who made the world and the sky and the 
thunder and lightning. We could never see him ; we could 
only see the things he had made ; and some of these things 
was very terrible, so as we might well tremble when we 
thought of him. But our blessed Saviour has showed us 
what God is in a ^ay us poor ignorant people can understand ; 
he has showed us what God’s heart is, what are his feelings 
towards us. 

“ But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on 
earth for. Another time he said, ‘ I came to seek and to save 
that which was lost ; 9 and another time, i I came not to call 
the righteous but sinners to repentance.’ 

“ The lost / . . . Sinners ! . . . Ah ! dear friends, does that 
mean you and me ? ” 

Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against 
his will by the charm of Dinah’s mellow treble tones, which 
had a variety of modulation like that of a fine instrument 
touched with the unconscious skill of musical instinct. The 
simple things she said seemed like novelties, as a melody 
strikes us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the 
pure voice of a boyish chorister ; the quiet depth of conviction 
with which she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the 
truth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly ar- 
rested her hearers. The villagers had pressed nearer to her, 
and there was no longer anything but grave attention on all 
faces. She spoke slowly, though quite fluently, often paus- 
ing after a question, or before any transition of ideas. There 
was no change of attitude, no gesture ; the effect of her speech 
was produced entirely by the inflections of her voice, and 
when she came to the question, "Will God take care of us when 
we die ? ” she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal 
that the tears came into some of the hardest eyes. The stran- 
ger had. ceased to doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that 
tihe could fix the attention of her rougher hearers, but still he 


THE PREACHING. 


27 


Pondered whether she could have that power of rousing their 
more violent emotions, which must surely be a necessary seal 
of her vocation as a Methodist preacher, until she came to the 
words, “ Lost ! — Sinners ! ” when there was a great change 
in her voice and manner. She had made a long pause be- 
fore the exclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agi- 
tating thoughts that showed themselves in her features. Her 
pale face became paler ; the circles under her eyes deepened, 
as they do when tears half gather without falling; and the 
mild loving eyes took an expression of appalled pity, as if she 
had suddenly discerned a destroying angel hovering over the 
heads of the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but 
there was still no gesture. Nothing could be less like the or- 
dinary type of the Ranter than Dinah. She was not preaching 
as she heard others preach, but speaking directly from her own 
emotions, and under the inspiration of her own simple faith. 

Buf now she had entered into a new current of feeling. 
Her manner became less calm, her utterance more rapid and 
agitated, as she tried to bring home to the people their guilt, 
their wilful darkness, their state of disobedience to God — as 
she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divine holiness, and 
the sufferings of the Saviour, by which a way had been opened 
for their salvation. At last it seemed as if, in her yearning 
desire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by 
addressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first to one 
and then to another, beseeching them with tears to turn to 
God while there was yet time ; painting to them the desolation 
of their souls, lost in sin, feeding on the husks of this miser- 
able world, far away from God their Father ; and then the 
love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching for their 
return. 

There was many a responsive sigh and groan from her fellow^ 
Methodists, but the village mind does not easily take fire, and 
a little smouldering vague anxiety, that might easily die out 
again, was the utmost effect Dinah’s preaching had wrought 
in them at present. Yet no one had retired, except the chil- 
dren and “ old Feyther Taft,” who being too deaf to catch 
many words, had some time ago gone back to his ingle-nook. 


28 


ADAM BEDE. 


Wiry Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing 
he had not come to hear Dinah ; he thought what she said 
would liau^t him somehow. Yet he could n’t help liking to 
look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded every moment 
that she would fix her eyes on him, and address him in par- 
ticular. She had already addressed Sandy Jim, who was now 
holding the baby to relieve his wife, and the big soft-hearted 
man had rubbed away some tears with his fist, with a confused 
intention of being a better fellow, going less to the Holly 
Bush down by the Stone-pits, and cleaning himself more regu- 
larly of a Sunday. 

In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad’s Bess, who had shown 
an unwonted quietude and fixity of attention ever since Dinah 
had begun to speak. Not that the matter of the discourse had 
arrested her at once, for she was lost in a puzzling speculation 
as to what pleasure and satisfaction there could be in life to 
a young woman who wore a cap like Dinah’s. Giving up this 
inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah’s nose, eyes, 
mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have 
such a sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round 
black eyes like her own. But gradually the influence of the 
general gravity told upon her, and she became conscious of 
what Dinah was saying. The gentle tones, the loving persua- 
sion, did not touch her, but when the more severe appeals came 
she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always been con- 
sidered a naughty girl ; she was conscious of it ; if it was nec 
essary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. 
She could n’t find her places at church as Sally Bann could j 
she had often been tittering when she “curcheyed” to Mr. 
Irwine ; and these religious deficiencies were accompanied by 
a corresponding slackness in the minor morals, for Bessy be- 
longed unquestionably to that unsoaped, lazy class of feminine 
characters with whom you may venture to “eat an egg, an 
apple, or a nut.” All this she was generally conscious of, and 
hitherto had not been greatly ashamed of it. But now she 
began to feel very much as if the constable had come to take 
her up and carry her before the 4 ustice for some undefined 
offence. She had a. terrified ; that God, whom she had 



Chad Cranage’s Forge 










































































•• 























































































































































THE PREACHING. 


29 


always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, and 
that J esus was close by looking at her, though she could not 
see him. For Dinah had that belief in visible manifestations 
of Jesus, which is common among the Methodists, and she 
communicated it irresistibly to her hearers : she made them 
feel that he was among them bodily, and might at any me 
ment show himself to them in some way that would strike 
'anguish and penitence into their hearts. 

“ See ! ” she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes 
fixed on a point above the heads of the people — “see where 
our blessed Lord stands and wbeps, and stretches out his arms 
towards you. Hear what he says : * How often would I have 
gathered you as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, 
and ye would not ! 9 . . . and ye would not,” she repeated, in a 
tone of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people again. 
“ See the print of the nails on his dear hands and feet. It is 
your sins that made them ! Ah ! how pale and worn he looks ! 
He has gone through all that great agony in the garden, when 
his soul was exceeding sorrowful even unto death, and the 
great drops of sweat fell like blood to the ground. They spat 
upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, they mocked 
him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then 
they nailed him up. Ah ! what pain ! His lips are parched 
with thirst, and they mock him still in this great agony ; yet 
with those parched lips he prays for them, ‘ Father, forgive 
them, for they know not what they do.’ Then a horror of 
great darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sinners feel 
when they are forever shut out from God. That was the last 
drop in the cup of bitterness. ‘ My God, my God ! ’ he cries, 
‘why hast Thou forsaken me?* 

“All this he bore for you ! For you — and you never think 
of him ; for you — and you turn your backs on him ; you don't 
care what he has gone through for you. Yet he is not weary 
i)f toiling for you : he has risen from the dead, he is praying 
for you at the right hand of God — ‘ Father, forgive them, for 
they know not what tney do.’ And he is upon this earth, 
too 5 he is among us ; he is there close to you now ; J see his 
wounded body and his look of love.” 


80 


ADAM BEDE. 


Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth 
and evident vanity had touched her with pity. 

“ Poor child ! poor child ! He is beseeching you, and you 
don’t listen to him. You think of ear-rings and fine gowns 
and caps, and you never think of the Saviour who died to save 
your precious soul. Your cheeks will be shrivelled one day, 
your hair will be gray, your poor body will be thin and totter- 
ing! Then you will begin to feel that your soul is not saved; 
then you will have to stand before God dressed in your sins, 
in your evil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who 
stands ready to help you now, won’t help you then : because 
you won’t have him to be your Saviour, he will be your judge. 
Now he looks at you with love and mercy, and says, 4 Come to 
me that you may have life ; ’ then he will turn away from you, 
and say, i Depart from me into everlasting fire ! ’ 99 

Poor Bessy’s wide-open black eyes began to fill with tears, 
her great red cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face 
was distorted like a little child’s before a burst of crying. 

“ Ah ! poor blind child ! ” Dinah went on, “ think if it should 
happen to you as it once happened to a servant of God in the 
days of her vanity. She thought of her lace caps, and saved 
all her money to buy ’em ; she thought nothing about how she 
might get a clean heart and a right spirit, she only wanted to 
have better lace than other girls. And one day when she put 
her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding 
Face crowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now,” 
— here Dinah pointed to a spot close in front of Bessy. — “ Ah ! 
tear off those follies ! cast them away from you, as if they were 
stinging adders. They are stinging you — they are poisoning 
your soul — they are dragging you down into a dark bottom- 
less pit, where you will sink forever, and forever, and tor 
ever, further away from light and God.” 

Bessy could bear it no longer : a great terror was upon her. 
and wrenching her ear-rings from her ears, she threw them 
down before her, sobbing aloud. Her father, Chad, frightened 
lest he should be “ laid hold on ” too, this impression on the 
rebellious Bess striking him as nothing less than a miracle, 
Walked hastily away, and began to work at his anvil by way 


THE PREACHING. 


31 

of reassuring himself. “ Folks mun lia’ hoss-shoes, praichin’ 
or no praichin’: the divil canna lay hould o’ me for that/’ he 
muttered to himself. 

But now Dinah began to tell of the joys that were in store 
for the penitent, and to describe in her simple way the divine 
peace and love with which the soul of the believer is filled — 
how the sense of God’s love turns poverty into riches, and satis 
fies the soul, so that no uneasy desire vexes it, no fear alarms 
it: how, at last, the very temptation to sin is extinguished, 
and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloud passes be- 
tween the soul and God, who is its eternal sun. 

“ Dear friends,” she said at last, “ brothers and sisters, whom 
I love as those for whom my Lord has died, believe me, I 
know what this great blessedness is ; and because I know it, 
I want you to have it too. I am poor, like you : I have to get 
my living with my hands ; but no lord nor . lady can be so 
happy as me, if they have n’t got the love of God in their 
souls. Think what it is — not to hate anything but sin ; to 
be full of love to every creature ; to be frightened at nothing ; 
to be sure that all things will turn to good ; not to mind pain, 
because it is our Father’s will ; to know that nothing — no, not 
if the earth was to be burnt up, or the waters come and drown 
us — nothing could part us from God who loves us, and who 
fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure that 
whatever he wills is holy, just, and good. 

“ Dear friends, come and take this blessedness ; it is offered 
to you ; it is the good news that Jesus came to preacn to the 
poor. It is not like the riches of this world, so that the more 
one gets the less the rest can have. God is without end ; his 
love is without end — 

‘ Its streams the whole creation reach. 

So plenteous is the store ; 

Enough for all, enough for each, 

Enough forevermore/ ” 

Dinah had been speaking at least an hour, and the redden- 
ing light of the parting day seemed to give a solemn emphasis 
to her closing words. The stranger, who had been interested 
in the course of her sermon, as if it had been the development 


32 ADAM BEDE. 

of a drama — for there is this sort of fascination in all sin- 
cere unpremeditated eloquence, which opens to one the inward 
drama of the speaker’s emotions — now turned his horse aside, 
and pursued his way, while Dinah said, “ Let us sing a little, 
dear friends ; ” and as he was still winding down the slope, 
the voices of the Methodists reached him, rising and falling 
in that strange blending of exultation and sadness which be- 
ings to the cadence of a hymn. 


CHAPTER IIL 

AFTER THE PREACHING. 

In less than an hour from that time Seth Bede was walking 
by Dinah’s side along the hedgerow-path that skirted the 
pastures and green cornfields which lay between the village 
and the Hall Farm. Dinah had taken off her little Quaker 
bonnet again, and was holding it in her hands that she might 
have a freer enjoyment of the cool evening twilight, and Seth 
could see the expression of her face quite clearly as he walked 
by her side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say to 
her. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravity — of 
absorption in thoughts that had no connection with the present 
moment or with her own personality : an expression that is 
most of all discouraging to a lover. Her very walk was dis- 
couraging: it had that quiet elasticity that asks for no sup- 
port. Seth felt this dimly ; he said to himself, “ She ’s too 
good and holy for any man, let alone me,” and> the words he 
had been summoning rushed back again before they had reached 
his lips. But another thought gave him courage : “ There ’s 
no man could love her better, and leave her freer to follow the 
Lord’s work.” They had been silent for many minutes now, 
since they had done talking about Bessy Cranage; Dinah 
seemed almost to have forgotten Seth’s presence, and her pace 
was becoming so much quicker, that the sense of their being 


^FTER THE PREACHING. 33 

only a few minutes’ walk from the yard-gates of the Hal) 
Farm at last gave Seth courage to speak. 

“ You ’ve quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield 
o’ Saturday, Dinah ? ” 

“Yes,” said Dinah, quietly. “I’m called there. It was 
borne in upon my mind while I was meditating on Sunday 
night, as Sister Allen, who ’s in a decline, is in need of me. 
I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin white cloud, lift- 
ing up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And this 
morning when I opened the Bible for direction, the first words 
my eyes fell on were, ‘ And after we had seen the vision, im- 
mediately we endeavored to go into Macedonia.’ If it was n’t 
for that clear showing of the Lord’s will I should be loath to 
go, for my heart yearns over my aunt and her little ones, and 
that poor wandering lamb Hetty Sorrel. I’ve been much 
drawn out in prayer for her of late, and I look on it as a 
token that there may be mercy in store for her.” 

“ God grant it,” said Seth. “ For I doubt Adam’s heart is 
so set on her, he ’ll never turn to anybody else ; and yet it ’ud 
go to my heart if he was to marry her, for I canna think as 
she’d make him happy. It’s a deep mystery — the way the 
heart of man turns to one woman out of all the rest he ’s seen 
i’ the world, and makes it easier for him to work seven year 
for her , like Jacob did for Rachel, sooner than have any other 
woman for th’ asking. I often think of them words, ‘ And 
Jacob served seven years for Rachel ; and they seemed to 
him but a few days for the love he had to her.’ I know those 
words ’ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you ’d give me 
hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know 
you think a husband ’ud be taking up too much o’ your 
thoughts, because St. Paul says, ‘She that’s married careth 
for the things of the world how she may please her husband ; ’ 
and may happen you’ll think me over-bold to speak to you 
about it again, after what you told me o’ your mind last Satur- 
day. But I ’ve been thinking it over again by night and by 
day, and I ’ve prayed not to be blinded by my own desires, to 
think what’s only good for me must be good for you too. 
And it seems to me there ’s more texts for your marrying than 


VOL. i. 


34 


ADAM BEDE. 


ever you can find against it. For St. Paul says as plain as 
can be in another place, ‘l will that the younger women 
marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to 
the adversary to speak reproachfully ; ’ and then ‘ two are 
better than one ; ’ and that holds good with marriage as well 
as with other things. For we should be o’ one heart and o’ 
one mind, Dinah. We both serve the same Master, and are 
striving after the same gifts ; and I ’d never be the husband 
to make a claim on you as could interfere with your doing the 
work God has fitted you for. I ’d make a shift, and fend in- 
door and out, to give you more liberty — more than you can 
have now, for you ’ ve got to get your own living now, and I ’in 
strong enough to work for us both.” 

When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on 
earnestly, and almost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some 
decisive word before he had poured forth all the arguments 
he had prepared. His cheeks became flushed as he went on, 
his mild gray eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he 
spoke the last sentence. They had reached one of those very 
narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed the 
office of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned 
towards Seth and said, in her tender but calm treble notes — 

“ Seth Bede, I thank you for your love towards me, and if 
I could think of any man as more than a Christian brother, I 
think it would be you. But my heart is not free to marry. 
That is good for other women, and it is a great and a blessed 
thing to be a wife and mother ; but ‘ as God has distributed 
to every man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him 
walk.’ God has called me to minister to others, not to have 
any joys or sorrows of my own, but to rejoice with them that 
do rejoice, and to weep with those that weep. He has called 
me to speak his word, and he has greatly owned my work. 
It could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave 
the brethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favored with 
very little of this world’s good; where the trees are few, so 
that a child might count them, and there ’s very hard living 
for the poor in the winter. It has been given me to help, to 
comfort, and strengthen the little flock there, and to cail in 


AFTER THE PREACHING. 


35 


many wanderers ; and my soul is filled with these things from 
my rising up till my lying down. My life is too short, and 
God’s work is too great for me to think of making a home for 
myself in this world. I ’ve not turned a deaf ear to your 
words, Seth, for when I saw as your love was given to me, I 
thought it might be a leading of Providence for me to change 
my way of life, and that we should be fellow-helpers ; and I 
spread the matter before the Lord. But whenever I tried 
to fix my mind on marriage, and our living together, other 
thoughts always came in — the times when I’ve prayed by the 
sick and dying, and the happy hours I ’ve had preaching, when 
my heart was filled with love, and the Word was given to me 
abundantly. And when I ’ve opened the Bible for direction, 
I ’ve always lighted on some clear word to tell me where my 
work lay. I believe what you say, Seth, that you would try 
to be a help and not a hindrance to my work ; but I see that 
our marriage is not God’s will. He draws my heart another 
way. I desire to live and die without husband or children. 
I seem to have no room in my soul for wants and fears of my 
own, it has pleased God to fill my heart so full with the wants 
and sufferings of his poor people.” 

Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. 
At last, as they were nearly at the yard-gate, he said — 

“ Well, Dinah, I must seek for strength to bear it, and to 
endure as seeing Him who is invisible. But I feel now how 
weak my faith is. It seems as if, when you are gone, I could 
never joy in anything any more. I think it ’s something pass- 
ing the love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content 
without your marrying me if I could go and live at Snowfield, 
and be near you. I trusted as the strong love God had given 
me towards you was a leading for us both ; but it seems it 
was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel more for you 
than I ought to feel for any creature, for I often can’t help 
saying of you what the hymn says — 

* In darkest shades if she appear. 

My dawning is begun ; 

She is my soul’s bright morning-star, 

And she my rising sun.* 


36 


ADAM BEDE. 


That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you 
would n’t be displeased with me if things turned out so as 1 
could leave this country and go to live at Snowfield ? ” 

“No, Seth; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not 
lightly to leave your own country and kindred. Do nothing 
without the Lord’s clear bidding. It ’s a bleak and barren 
country there, not like this land of Goshen you ’ve been used 
to. We mustn’t be in a hurry to fix and choose our own lot; 
we must wait to be guided.” 

“But you’d let' me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was 
anything I wanted to tell you ? ” 

“ Yes, sure ; let me know if you ’re in any trouble. You 'll 
be continually in my prayers.” 

They had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, “I 
won’t go in, Dinah; so farewell.” He paused and hesitated 
after she had given him her hand, and then said, “There’s 
no knowing but what you may see things different after a 
while. There may be a new leading.” 

“Let us leave that, Seth. It’s good to live only a moment 
at a time, as I ’ve read in one of Mr. Wesley’s books. It is n’t 
for you and me to lay plans ; we ’ve nothing to do but to obey 
and to trust. Farewell.” 

Dinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in her lov- 
ing eyes, and then passed through the gate, while Seth turned 
away to walk lingeringly home. But instead of taking the 
direct road, he chose to turn back along the fields through 
which he and Dinah had already passed ; and I think his blue 
linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long before he had 
made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face 
steadily homewards. He was but three-and-twenty, and had 
only just learned what it is to love — to love with that adorar 
tion which a young man gives to a woman whom he feels to 
be greater and better than himself. Love of this sort is 
hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep 
and worthy love is so ? whether of woman or child, or art or 
music. Our caresses, our tender words, our still rapture un- 
der the influence of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm 
majestic statues, or Beethoven symphonies, all bring with them 


AFTER THE PREACHING. 


37 


the consciousness that they are mere waves and ripples in an 
unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; our emotion in its 
keenest moment passes from expression into silence, our love 
at its highest flood rushes beyond its object, and loses itself 
in the sense of divine mystery. And this blessed gift of ven- 
erating love has been given to too many humble craftsmen 
since the world began, for us to feel any surprise that it 
should have existed in the soul of a Methodist carpenter half 
a century ago, while there was yet a lingering afterglow from 
the time when Wesley and his fellow-laborer fed on the hips 
and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and 
lungs in carrying a divine message to the poor. 

That afterglow has long faded away; and the picture we 
are apt to make of Methodism in our imagination is not an 
amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep shade of broad-leaved 
sycamores, where a crowd of rough men and weary-hearted 
women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary culture, 
which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their imagi- 
nation above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, and 
suffused their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinite 
Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too 
possible that to some of my readers Methodism may mean 
nothing more than low-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek 
grocers, sponging preachers, and hypocritical jargon — ele- 
ments which are regarded as an exhaustive analysis of Method- 
ism in many fashionable quarters. 

That would be a pity ; for I cannot pretend that Seth and 
Dinah were anything else than Methodists — not indeed of 
that modern type which reads quarterly reviews and attends 
in chapels with pillared porticos; but of a very old-fashioned 
kind. They believed in present miracles, in instantaneous 
conversions, in revelations by dreams and visions; they drew 
lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at 
hazard; having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, 
which is not at all sanctioned by approved commentators; and 
it is impossible for me to represent their diction as correct, or 
their instruction as liberal. Still — if I have read religious 
history aright — faith, hope, and charity have not always been 


38 


ADAM BEDE. 


found in a direct ratio with a sensibility to the three concords ; 
and it is possible, thank Heaven ! to have very erroneous theo- 
ries and very sublime feelings. The raw bacon which clumsy 
Molly spares from her own scanty store, that she may carry 
it to her neighbor’s child to “ stop the fits,” may be a piteously 
inefficacious remedy ; but the generous stirring of neighborly 
kindness that prompted the deed has a beneficent radiation 
that is not lost. 

Considering these things, we can hardly think Dinah and 
Seth beneath our sympathy, accustomed as we may be to weep 
over the loftier sorrows of heroines in satin boots and crino- 
line, and of heroes riding fiery horses, themselves ridden by 
still more fiery passions. 

Poor Seth ! he was never on horseback in his life except 
once, when he was a little lad, and Mr. Jonathan Burge took 
him up behind, telling him to “ hold on tight ; ” and instead 
of bursting out into wild accusing apostrophes to God and 
destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks homeward under the 
solemn starlight, to repress his sadness, to be less bent on 
having his own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah 
does. 


CHAPTEK IV. 

HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 

A green valley with a brook running through it, full almost 
to overflowing with the late rains ; overhung by low stooping 
willows. Across this brook a plank is thrown, and over this 
plank Adam Bede is passing with his undoubting step, fol- 
lowed close by Gyp with the basket; evidently making his 
way to the thatched house, with a stack of timber by the side 
of it, about twenty yards up the opposite slope. 

The door of the house is open, and an elderly woman is 
looking out ; but she is not placidly contemplating the even- 
ing sunshine ; she has been watching with dim eyes the grad- 
ually enlarging speck which for the last few minutes she has 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 


89 


been quite sure is her darling son Adam. Lisbeth Bede loves 
her son with the love of a woman to whom her first-born has 
come late in life. She is an anxious, spare, yet vigorous old 
woman, clean as a snowdrop. Her gray hair is turned neatly 
back under a pure linen cap with a black band round it ; her 
broad chest is covered with a buff neckerchief, and below this 
you see a sort of short bed-gown made of blue-checkered linen, 
tied round the waist and descending to the hips, from whence 
there is a considerable length of linsey-wolsey petticoat. For 
Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a strong likeness 
between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat 
dim now — perhaps from too much crying — but her broadly 
marked eyebrows are still black, her teeth are sound, and as 
she stands knitting rapidly and unconsciously with her work- 
hardened hands, she has as firmly upright an attitude as when 
she is carrying a pail of water on her head from the spring. 
There is the same type of frame and the same keen activity of 
temperament in mother and son, but it was not from her that 
Adam got his well-filled brow and his expression of large- 
hearted intelligence. 

Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, 
that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and 
muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; 
blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our heart- 
strings to the beings that jar us at every movement. We hear 
a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering the thoughts 
we despise ; we see eyes — ah ! so like our mother’s — averted 
from us in cold alienation ; and our last darling child startles 
us with the air and gestures of the sister we parted from in 
bitterness long years ago. The father to whom we owe our 
best heritage — the mechanical instinct, the keen sensibility to 
harmony, the unconscious skill of the modelling hand — galls 
us, and puts us to shame by his daily errors; the long-lost 
mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our own 
wrinkles come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious 
humors and irrational persistence. 

It is such a fond anxious mother’s voice that you hear, as 
Lisbeth says — 


40 


ADAM BEDE. 


"Well, my lad, it’s gone seven by th’ clock. Thee’t allays 
stay till the last child ’s born. Thee wants thy supper, I ’ll 
warrand. Where’s Seth? gone arter some o’s ehapellin’, X 
reckon ? ” 

“ Ay, ay, Seth ’s at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure. 
Put where ’s father ? ” said Adam quickly, as he entered the 
house and glanced into the room on the left hand, which 
was used as a workshop. “Has n’t he done the coffin for 
Tholer ? There ’s the stuff standing just as I left it this 
morning.” 

“ Done the coffin ? ” said Lisbeth, following him, and knit- 
ting uninterruptedly, though she looked at her son very anx- 
iously. “ Eh, my lad, he went aff to Treddles’on this forenoon, 
an’s niver come back. I doubt he ’s got to th’ ‘ Waggin Over- 
throw ’ again.” 

A deep flush of anger passed rapidly over Adam’s face. He 
said nothing, but threw off his jacket, and began to roll up his 
shirt-sleeves again. 

“What art goin’ to do, Adam?” said the mother, with a 
tone and look of alarm. “ Thee wouldstna go to work again, 
wi’out ha’in thy bit o’ supper ? ” 

Adam, too angry to speak, walked into the workshop. But 
his mother threw down her knitting, and, hurrying after 
him, took hold of his arm, and said, in a tone of plaintive 
remonstrance — 

“ Nay, my lad, my lad, thee munna go wi’out thy supper ; 
there ’s the taters wi’ the gravy in ’em, just as thee lik’st ’em. 
I saved ’em o’ purpose for thee. Come an’ ha’ thy supper, 
come.” 

“ Let be ! ” said Adam impetuously, shaking her off, and 
seizing one of the planks that stood against the wall. “ It ’s 
fine talking about having supper when here ’s a coffin prom- 
ised to be ready at Brox’on by seven o’clock to-morrow 
morning, and ought to ha’ been there now, and not a nail 
struck yet. My throat ’s too full to swallow victuals.” 

“Why, thee canstna get the coffin ready,” said Lisbeth. 
“Thee’t work thyself to death. It ’ud take thee all night 
to do ’t.” 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 


41 


“What signifies how long it takes me? Isn’t the coffin 
promised ? Can they bury the man without a coffin ? I ’d 
work my right hand off sooner than deceive people with lies 
i’ that way. It makes me mad to think on ’t. I shall overrun 
these doings before long. I ’ve stood enough of ’em.” 

Poor Lisbeth did not hear this threat for the first time, and 
if she had been wise she would have gone away quietly, and 
said nothing for the next hour. But one of the lessons a 
woman most rarely learns, is never to talk to an angry or a 
drunken man. Lisbeth sat down on the chopping-bench and 
began to cry, and by the time she had cried enough to make 
her voice very piteous, she burst out into words. 

“Nay, my lad, my lad, thee wouldstna go away an’ break 
thy mother’s heart, an’ leave thy feyther to ruin. Thee 
wouldstna ha’ ’em carry me to th’ churchyard, an’ thee not 
to follow me. I shanna rest i’ my grave if I donna see thee 
at th’ last ; an’ how ’s they to let thee know as I ’m a-dyin’, 
if thee ’t gone a-workin’ i’ distant parts, an’ Seth belike gone 
arter thee, and thy feyther not able to hold a pen for ’s hand 
shakin’, besides not knowin’ where thee art ? Thee mun for- 
gie thy feyther — thee munna be so bitter again’ him. He 
war a good feyther to thee afore he took to th’ drink. He ’s a 
clever workman, an’ taught thee thy trade, remember, an’s 
niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word — no, not 
even in ’s drink. Thee wouldstna ha’ ’m go to the workhus — 
thy own feyther — an’ him as was a fine-growed man an’ 
handy at everythin’ amost as thee art thysen, five-an’-twenty 
’ear ago, when thee wast a baby at the breast.” 

; Lisbeth’s voice became louder, and choked with sobs : a sort 
of wail, the most irritating of all sounds where real sorrows 
are to be borne, and real work to be done. Adam broke in 
impatiently. 

“Now, mother, don’t cry and talk so. Have n’t I got 
enough to vex me without that ? What ’s th’ use o’ telling me 
things as I only think too much on every day ? If I didna 
think on ’em why should I do as I do, for the sake o’ keeping 
things together here ? But I hate to be talking where it ’s no 
use : I like to keep my breath for doing istead o’ talking.” 


42 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ J know thee dost things as nobody else *ud do, my lad. 
But thee ’t allays so hard upo’ thy feyther, Adam. Thee 
think ’st nothing too much to do for Seth : thee snapp’st me 
up if iver I find faut wi’ th’ lad. But thee’t so angered wi’ 
thy feyther, more nor wi’ anybody else.” 

“That’s better than speaking soft, and letting things go 
the wrong way, I reckon, is n’t it ? If I was n’t sharp with 
him, he ’d sell every bit o’ stuff i’ th’ yard, and spend it on 
drink. I know there ’s a duty to be done by my father, but 
it is n’t my duty to encourage him in running headlong to 
ruin. And what has Seth got to do with it ? The lad does 
no harm as I know of. But leave me alone, mother, and let 
me get on with the work.” 

Lisbeth dared not say any more ; but she got up and called 
Gyp, thinking to console herself somewhat for Adam’s refusal 
of the supper she had spread out in the loving expectation of 
looking at him while he ate it, by feeding Adam’s dog with 
extra liberality. But Gyp was watching his master with 
wrinkled brow and ears erect, puzzled at this unusual course 
of things ; and though he glanced at Lisbeth when she called 
him, and moved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing that she 
was inviting him to supper, he was in a divided state of mind, 
and remained seated on his haunches, again fixing his eyes 
anxiously on his master. Adam noticed Gyp’s mental con- 
flict, and though his anger had made him less tender than 
usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as 
much as usual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the 
brutes that love us than to the women that love us. Is it 
because the brutes are dumb? 

“ Go, Gyp ; go, lad ! ” Adam said, in a tone of encouraging 
command ; and Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleas- 
ure were one, followed Lisbeth into the house-place. 

But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went 
back to his master, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over 
her knitting. Women who are never bitter and resentful are 
often the most querulous ; and if Solomon was as wise as he is 
reputed to be, I feel sure that when he compared a conten* 
fcious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainy day, ho 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 


43 


had not a vixen in his eye — a fury with long nails, acrid and 
selfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had 
no joy but in the happiness of the loved ones whom she con- 
tributed to make uncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for 
them, and spending nothing on herself. Such a woman as 
Lisbeth, for example — at once patient and complaining, self- 
renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong day over what 
happened yesterday, and what is likely to happen to-morrow* 
and crying very readily both at the good and the evil. But 
a certain awe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of 
Adam, and when he said, “ Leave me alone,” she was always 
silenced. 

So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock 
and the sound of Adam’s tools. At last he called for a light 
and a draught of water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on 
holidays), and Lisbeth ventured to say as she took it in, “ Thy 
supper stans ready for thee, when thee lik’st.” 

“Donna thee sit up, mother,” said Adam, in a gentle tone. 
He had worked off his anger now, and whenever he wished to 
be especially kind to his mother, he fell into his strongest 
native accent and dialect, with which at other times his speech 
was less deeply tinged. “ I ’ll see to father when he comes 
home ; maybe he wonna come at all to-night. I shall be easier 
if thee ’t i’ bed.” 

“Nay, I’ll bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, 
I reckon.” 

It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in 
advance of the day, and before it had struck ten the latch was 
lifted and Seth entered. He had heard the sound of the tools 
as he was approaching. 

“ Why, mother,” he said, “ how is it as father ’s working so 
late?” 

“ It ’s none o’ thy feyther as is a-workin’ — thee flight 
know that well anoof if thy head warna full o’ chapellin* — it ’s 
thy brother as does iverything, for there ’s niver nobody else 
i’ th’ way to do nothin’.” 

Lisbeth was going on, 1 for she was not at all afraid of Seth, 
and usually poured into his ears all the querulousness which 


44 


ADAM BEDE. 


was repressed by her awe of Adam. Seth had never in his 
life spoken a harsh word to his mother, and timid people ah 
ways wreak their peevishness on the gentle. But Seth, with 
an anxious look, had passed into the workshop and said — 

“ Addy, how ’s this ? * What ! father ’s forgot the coffin ? 99 

“ Ay, lad, th’ old tale ; but I shall get it done,” said Adam, 
looking up, and casting one of his bright keen glances at his 
brother. “ Why, what ’s the matter with thee ? Thee ’t in 
trouble.” 

Seth’s eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depres 
sion on his mild face. 

“ Yes, Addy, but it ’s what must be borne, and can’t be 
helped. Why, thee ’st never been to the school, then ? ” 

“ School ? no ; that screw can wait,” said Adam, hammer- 
ing away again. 

“ Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed,” said 
Seth. 

“ No, lad, I ’d rather go on, now I ’m in harness. Thee ’t 
help me to carry it to Brox’on when it ’s done. I ’ll call thee 
up at sunrise. Go and eat thy supper, and shut the door, so 
as I may n’t hear mother’s talk.” 

Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and 
was not to be persuaded into meaning anything else. So he 
turned, with rather a heavy heart, into the house-place. 

“ Adam’s niver touched a bit o’ victual sin’ home he’s 
come,” said Lisbeth. “I reckon thee ’st hed thy supper at 
some o’ thy Methody folks.” 

“Nay, mother,” said Seth, “I’ve had no supper yet.” 

“ Come, then,” said Lisbeth, “ but donna thee ate the taters, 
for Adam ’ull happen ate ’em if I leave ’em stannin’. He 
loves a bit o’ taters an’ gravy. But he ’s been so sore an’ 
angered, he wouldn’t ate ’em, for all I’d putten ’em by o’ 
purpose for him. An’ he’s been a-threatenin’ to go away 
again,” she went on, whimpering, “ an’ I ’m fast sure he ’ll go 
some dawnin’ afore I ’m up, an’ niver let me know aforehand, 
an’ he ’ll niver come back again when once he ’s gone. An 5 
I ’d better niver ha’ had a son, as is like no other body’s son 
for the deftness an’ th’ handiness* an’ so looked on by th’ grit 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 45 

folks, an’ tall an’ upright like a poplar-tree, an’ me to be 
parted from him, an’ niver see ’m no more.” 

“ Come, mother, donna grieve thyself in vain,” said Seth, 
in a soothing voice. “ Thee ’st not half so good reason to 
think as Adam ’nil go away as to think he ’ll stay with thee. 
He may say such a thing when he ’s in wrath — and he ’s 
got excuse for being wrathful sometimes — but his heart ’ud 
never let him go. Think how he ’s stood by us all when it ’s 
been none so easy — paying his savings to free me from 
going for a soldier, an’ turnin’ his earnins into wood for 
father, when he ’s got plenty o’ uses for his money, and many 
a young man like him ’ud ha’ been married and settled before 
now. He ’ll never turn round and knock down his own work, 
and forsake them as it ’s been the labor of his life to stand by.” 

“ Donna talk to me about ’s marr’in’,” said Lisbeth, crying 
afresh. “ He ’s set ’s heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as ’ull niver 
save a penny, an’ ’ull toss up her head at ’s old mother. An’ 
to think as he might ha’ Mary Burge, an’ be took partners, 
an’ be a big man wi’ workmen under him, like Mester Burge 
— Dolly ’s told me so o’er and o’er again — if it warna as he ’s 
set ’s heart on that bit of a wench, as is o’ no more use nor the 
gillyflower on the wall. An’ he so wise at bookin’ an’ figurin’, 
an’ not to know no better nor that ! ” 

“ But, mother, thee know’st we canna love just where other 
folks ’ud have us. There ’s nobody but G-od can control the 
heart of man. I could ha’ wished myself as Adam could ha’ 
made another choice, but I would n’t reproach him for what he 
can’t help. And I ’m not sure but what he tries to o’ercome 
it. But it ’s a matter as he does n’t like to be spoke to about, 
and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him.” 

“ Ay, thee ’t allays ready enough at prayin’, but I donna see 
as thee gets much wi’ thy prayin’. Thee wotna get double 
earnins o’ this side Yule. Th’ Methodies ’ll niver make thee 
half the man thy brother is, for all they ’re a-makin’ a preacher 
on thee.” 

“ It ’s partly truth thee speak’st there, mother,” said Set! 
mildly ; “ Adam ’s far before me, an ’s done more for me than 
I can ever do for him. God distributes talents to every man 


ADAM BEDE. 


46 

according as he sees good. But thee mustna undervally 
prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings us what 
no money can buy — a power to keep from sin, and be con- 
tent with God’s will, whatever he may please to send. If 
thee wouldst pray to God to help thee, and trust in his good 
ness, thee wouldstna be so uneasy about things.” 

“ Unaisy ? Pm i’ th’ right on ’t to be unaisy. It ’s well 
"seen on thee what it is niver to be unaisy. Thee ’t gi’ away 
all thy earnins, an’ niver be unaisy as thee ’st nothin’ laid up 
again’ a rainy day. If Adam had been as aisy as thee, he ’d 
niver ha’ had no money to pay for thee. Take no thought 
for the morrow — take no thought — that ’s what thee ’t 
allays sayin’ ; an’ what comes on ’t ? Why, as Adam has to 
take thought for thee.” 

“ Those are the words o’ the Bible, mother,” said Seth. 
“They don’t mean as we should be idle. They mean we 
shouldn’t be over-anxious and worreting ourselves about 
what’ll happen to-morrow, but do our duty, and leave the 
rest to God’s will.” 

“ Ay, ay, that ’s the way wi’ thee : thee allays makes a peck 
o’ thy own words out o’ a pint o’ the Bible’s. I donna see how 
thee ’t to know as ‘ take no thought for the morrow ’ means all 
that. An’ when the Bible ’s such a big book, an’ thee canst 
read all thro ’t, an’ ha’ the pick o’ the texes, I canna think why 
thee dostna pick better words as donna mean so much more nor 
they say. Adam doesna pick a-that’n ; I can understan’ the tex 
as he ’s allays a-sayin’, ‘ God helps them as helps theirsens.’ ” 

“Nay, mother,” said Seth, “that ’s no text o’ the Bible. It 
comes out of a book as Adam picked up at the stall at Tred- 
dles’on. It was wrote by a knowing man, but over-worldly, I 
doubt. However, that saying ’s partly true ; for the Bible tells 
us we must be workers together with God.” 

“Well, how’m I to know? It sounds like a tex. But 
what ’s th’ matter wi’ th’ lad ? Thee ’t hardly atm’ a bit o’ 
supper. Dostna mean to ha’ no more nor that bit o’ oat-cake ? 
An’ thee lookst as white as a flick o’ new bacon. What ’s th* 
matter wi’ thee ? ” 

“ Nothing to mind about, mother ; I ’m not hungry. I ’ll 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS, 


47 

just look in at Adam again, and see if lie ’ll let me go on with 
the coffin.” 

“ Ha’ a drop o’ warm broth ? ” said Lisbeth, whose motherly 
feeling now got the better of her “nattering” habit. “I T1 
set two-three sticks a-liglit in a minute.” 

“Hay, mother, thank thee; thee ’t very good,” said Seth, 
gratefully; and encouraged by this touch of tenderness, he 
went on: “Let me pray a bit with thee for father, and Adam, 
and all of us — it ’ll comfort thee, happen, more than thee 
thinkst.” 

“Well, I ’ye nothin’ to say again’ it.” 

Lispeth, though disposed always to take the negative side 
in her conversations with Seth, had a vague sense that there 
was some comfort and safety in the fact of his piety, and that 
it somehow relieved her from the trouble of any spiritual 
transactions on her own behalf. 

So the mother and son knelt down together, and Seth prayed 
for the poor wandering father, and for those who were sorrow- 
ing for him at home. And when he came to the petition that 
Adam might never be called to set up his tent in a far country, 
but that his mother might be cheered and comforted by his 
presence all the days of her pilgrimage, Lisbeth’s ready tears 
flowed again, and she wept aloud. 

When they rose from their knees, Seth went to Adam again, 
and said, “Wilt only lie down for an hour or two, and let me 
go on the while ? ” 

“Ho, Seth, no. Make mother go to bed, and go thyself.” 

Meantime Lisbeth had dried her eyes, and now followed 
Seth, holding something in her hands. It was the brown-and- 
yellow platter containing the baked potatoes with the gravy in 
them and bits of meat which she had cut and mixed among 
them. Those were dear times, when wheaten bread and fresh 
meat were delicacies to working people. She set the dish 
down rather timidly on the bench by Adam’s side, and said, 

1 4 Thee canst pick a bit while thee ’t workin’. I ’ll bring thee 
another drop o’ water.” 

“Ay, mother, do,” said Adam, kindly; “I ’m getting very 
thirsty.” 


48 


ADAM BEDE. 


In half an hour all was quiet ; no sound was to he heard i& 
the house but the loud ticking of the old day-clock, and the 
ringing of Adam’s tools. The night was very still: when 
Adam opened the door to look out at twelve o’clock, the only 
motion seemed to be in the glowing, twinkling stars; every 
blade of grass was asleep. 

Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very 
much at the mercy of our feelings and imagination; and it 
was so to-night with Adam. While his muscles were working 
lustily, his mind seemed as passive as a spectator at a diorama : 
scenes of the sad past, and probably sad future, floating before 
him, and giving place one to the other in swift succession. 

He saw how it would be to-morrow morning, when he had 
carried the coffin to Broxton and was at home again, having 
his breakfast : his father perhaps would come in ashamed to 
meet his son’s glance — would sit down, looking older and 
more tottering than he had done the morning before, and hang 
down his head, examining the floor-quarries ; while Lisbeth 
would ask him how he supposed the coffin had been got ready, 
that he had slinked off and left undone — for Lisbeth was ah 
ways the first to utter the word of reproach, although she cried 
at Adam’s severity towards his father. 

“ So it will go on, worsening and worsening,” thought Adam : 
“ there ’s no slipping up-hill again, and no standing still when 
once you ’ve begun to slip down.” And then the day came 
back to hits when he was a little fellow and used to run 
by his father’s side, proud to be taken out to work, and 
prouder still to hear his father boasting to his fellow-workmen 
how “ the little chap had an uncommon notion o’ carpenter- 
ing.” What a fine active fellow his father was then ! When 
people asked Adam whose little lad he was, he had a sense of 
distinction as he answered, “ I ’m Thias Bede’s lad ” — he was 
quite sure everybody knew Thias Bede : did n’t he make the 
wonderful pigeon-house at Broxton parsonage ? Those were 
happy days, especially when Seth, who was three years the 
younger, began to go out working too, and Adam began to be 
a teacher as well as a learner. But then came the days of 
sadness, when Adam was some way on in his teens, and Tnias 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 


49 


began to loiter at the public-houses, and Lisbeth began to cry 
at home, and to pour forth her plaints in the hearing of her 
sons. Adam remembered well the night of shame and anguish 
when he first saw his father quite wild and foolish, shouting a 
song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the “ Wagon 
Overthrown. ” He had run away once when he was only eigh- 
teen, making his escape in the morning twilight with a little 
blue bundle over his shoulder, and his “ mensuration book” in 
his pocket, and saying to himself very decidedly that he could 
bear the vexations of home no longer — he would go and seek 
his fortune, setting up his stick at the crossways and bending 
his steps the way it fell. But by the time he got to Stoniton, 
bhe thought of his mother and Seth, left behind to endure 
everything without him, became too importunate, and his reso- 
lution failed him. He came back the next day, but the misery 
and terror his mother had gone through in those two days had 
haunted her ever since. 

“No!” Adam said to himself to-night, “that must never 
happen again. It ’ud make a poor balance when my doings 
are cast up at the last, if my poor old mother stood o’ the 
wrong side. My back’s broad enough and strong enough; I 
should be no better than a coward to go away and leave the 
troubles to be borne by them as are n’t half so able. ‘They 
that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of those that are 
weak, and not to please themselves.’ There’s a text wants 
no candle to show’t; it shines by its own light. It’s plain 
enough you get into the wrong road i’ this life if you run 
after this and that only for the sake o’ making things easy 
and pleasant to yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the 
trough and think o’ nothing outside it; but if you’ve got a 
man’s heart and soul in you, you can’t be easy a-making your 
own bed an’ leaving the rest to lie on the stones. Nay, nay, 
I ’ll never slip my neck out o’ the yoke, and leave the load to 
be drawn by the weak uns. Father ’s a sore cross to me, an’s 
likely to be for many a long year to come. What then? I’ve 
got th’ health, and the limbs, and the sperrit to bear it.” 

At this moment a smart rap, as if with a willow wand, was 
given at the house door, and Gyp, instead of barking as mights 

VOfc I. 


50 


ADAM BEDE. 


have been expected, gave a loud howl. Adam, very much 
startled, went at once to the door and opened it. Nothing 
was there; all was still, as when he opened it an hour before; 
the leaves were motionless, and the light of the stars showed 
the placid fields on both sides of the brook quite empty of 
visible life. Adam walked round the house, and still saw 
nothing except a rat which darted into the woodshed as he 
passed. He went in again, wondering; the sound was so 
peculiar, that the moment he heard it, it called up the image 
of the willow wand striking the door. He could not help a 
little shudder, as he remembered how often his mother had 
told him of just such a sound coming as a sign when some one 
was dying. Adam was not a man to be gratuitously supersti- 
tious; but he had the blood of the peasant in him as well as 
of the artisan, and a peasant can no more help believing in a 
traditional superstition than a horse can help trembling when 
he sees a camel. Besides, he had that mental combination 
which is at once humble in the region of mystery, and keen 
in the region of knowledge : it was the depth of his reverence 
quite as much as his hard common-sense, which gave him his 
disinclination to doctrinal religion, and he often checked Seth’s 
argumentative spiritualism by saying, “ Eh, it ’s a big mystery ; 
thee know’st but little about it.” And so it happened that 
Adam was at once penetrating and credulous. If a new build- 
ing had fallen down and he had been told that this was a 
divine judgment, he would have said, “Maybe; but the bear- 
ing o’ the roof and walls was n’t right, else it would n’t ha’ 
come down;” yet he believed in dreams and prognostics, and 
to his dying day he bated his breath a little when he told the 
story of the stroke with the willow wand. I tell it as he told 
it, not attempting to reduce it to its natural elements : in our 
eagerness to explain impressions, we often lose our hold of the 
sympathy that comprehends them. 

But he had the best antidote against imaginative dread in 
the necessity for getting on with the coffin, and for the next 
ten minutes his hammer was ringing so uninterruptedly, that 
other sounds, if there were any, might well be overpowered. 
A pause came, however, when he had to take up his ruler and 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 


51 


now again came tlie strange rap, and again Gyp howled. Adam 
was at the door without the loss of a moment ; but again all 
was still, and the starlight showed there was nothing but the 
dew-laden grass in front of the cottage. 

Adam for a moment thought uncomfortably about his father * 
but of late years he had never come home at dark hours from 
Treddleston, and there was every reason for believing that he 
was then sleeping off his drunkenness at the “ Wagon Over- 
thrown.” Besides, to Adam, the conception of the future was 
so inseparable from the painful image of his father, that the 
fear of any fatal accident to him was excluded by the deeply 
infixed fear of his continual degradation. The next thought 
that occurred to him was one that made him slip off his shoes 
and tread lightly up-stairs, to listen at the bedroom doors. 
But both Seth and his mother were breathing regularly. 

Adam came down and set to work again, saying to himself, 
“ I won’t open the door again. It ’s no use staring about to 
catch sight of a sound. Maybe there ’s a world about us as 
we can’t see, but th’ ear ’s quicker than the eye, and catches a 
sound from ’t now and then. Some people think they get a sight 
on ’t too, but they ’re mostly folks whose eyes are not much 
use to ’em at anything else. For my part, I think it ’s better 
to see when your perpendicular ’s true, than to see a ghost.” 

Such thoughts as these are apt to grow stronger and stronger 
as daylight quenches the candles and the birds begin to sing. 
By the time the red sunlight shone on the brass nails that 
formed the initials on the lid of the coffin, any lingering fore- 
boding from the sound of the willow wand was merged in 
satisfaction that the work was done and the promise redeemed. 
There was no need to call Seth, for he was already moving 
overhead, and presently came down-stairs. 

“Now, lad,” said Adam, as Seth made his appearance, “the 
coffin ’s done, and we can take it over to Brox’on, and be back 
again before half after six. I ’ll take a mouthful o’ oat-cake, 
and then we ’ll be off.” 

The coffin was soon propped on the tall shoulders of the two 
brothers, and they were making their way, followed close by 
Gyp, out of the little woody ard mto the lane at the back ol 


52 


ADAM BEDE. 


the house. It was but about a mile and a half to Broxton 
over the opposite slope, and their road wound very pleasantly 
along lanes and across fields, where the pale woodbines and 
the dog-roses were scenting the hedgerows, and the birds were 
twittering and trilling in the tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. 
It was a strangely mingled picture — the fresh youth of the 
summer morning, with its Eden-like peace and loveliness, the 
stalwart strength of the two brothers in their rusty working 
clothes, and the long coffin on their shoulders. They paused 
for the last time before a small farmhouse outside the village 
of Broxton. By six o’clock the task was done, the coffin nailed 
down, and Adam and Seth were on their way home. They 
chose a shorter way homeward, which would take them across 
the fields and the brook in front of the house. Adam had not 
mentioned to Seth what had happened in the night, but he still 
retained sufficient impression from it himself to say — 

“ Seth, lad, if father is n’t come home by the time we ’ve 
had our breakfast, I think it ’ll be as well for thee to go over 
to Treddles’on and look after him, and thee canst get me the 
brass wire I want. Never mind about losing an hour at thy 
work; we can make that up. What dost say ?” 

“ I ’m willing,” said Seth. “ But see what clouds have 
gathered since we set out. I ’m thinking we shall have more 
rain. It ’ll be a sore time for th’ haymaking if the meadows 
are flooded again. The brook ’s fine and full now : another 
day’s rain ’ud cover the plank, and we should have to go round 
by the road.” 

They were coming across the valley now, and had entered 
the pasture through which the brook ran. 

“ Why, what ’s that sticking against the willow ? ” continued 
Seth, beginning to walk faster. Adam’s heart rose to his 
mouth : the vague anxiety about his father was changed into a 
great dread. He made no answer to Seth, but ran forward, 
preceded by Gyp, who began to bark uneasily; and in two 
moments he was at the bridge. 

This was what the omen meant, then ! And the gray-haired 
father, of whom he had thought with a sort of hardness a few 
ftours ago, as certain to live to be a thorn in his side, was per- 


HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 


53 


haps even then struggling with that watery death ! This was 
the first thought that flashed through Adam’s conscience, 
before he had time to seize the coat and drag out the tall 
heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping him, and 
when they had it on the 'bank, the two sons in the first mo- 
ments knelt and looked with mute awe at the glazed eyes, 
forgetting that there was need for action — forgetting every- 
thing but that their father lay dead before them. Adam was 
the first to speak. 

“ I ’ll run to mother,” he said, in a loud whisper. “ I ’ll be 
back to thee in a minute.” 

Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons’ breakfast, and 
their porridge was already steaming on the fire. Her kitchen 
always looked the pink of cleanliness, but this morning she was 
more than usually bent on making her hearth and breakfast- 
table look comfortable and inviting. 

“ The lads ’ull be fine an’ hungry,” she said, half aloud, as 
she stirred the porridge. "It’s a good step to Brox’on, an’ 
it ’s hungry air o’er the hill — wi’ that heavy coffin too. Eh ! 
it ’s heavier now, wi’ poor Bob Tholer in ’t. Howiver, I ’ve 
made a drap more porridge nor common this mornin’. The 
feyther ’ull happen come in arter a bit. Not as he ’ll ate 
much porridge. He swallers sixpenn’orth o’ ale, an’ saves a 
hap’orth o’ porridge — that ’s his way o’ layin’ by money, as 
I ’ve told him many a time, an’ am likely to tell him again 
afore the day ’s out. Eh! poor mon, he takes it quiet enough ; 
there ’s no denyin’ that.” 

But now Lisbeth heard the heavy “ thud ” of a running 
footstep on the turf, and, turning quickly towards the door, 
she saw Adam enter, looking so pale and overwhelmed that 
she screamed aloud and rushed towards him before he had 
time to speak. 

“ Hush, mother,” Adam said, rather hoarsely, “ don’t be 
frightened. Eather ’s tumbled into the water. Belike we may 
bring him round again. Seth and me are going to carry him 
in. Get a blanket and make it hot at the fire.” 

In reality Adam was convinced that his father was dead, 
but he knew there was no other way of repressing his mother’s 


54 


ADAM BEDE. 


impetuous wailing grief than by occupying her with some 
active task which had hope in it. 

He ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden 
in heartstricken silence. The wide-open glazed eyes were 
gray, like Seth’s, and had once looked with mild pride on the 
boys before whom Thias had lived to hang his head in shame. 
Seth’s chief feeling was awe and distress at this sudden snatch- 
ing away of his father’s soul ; but Adam’s mind rushed back 
over the past in a flood of relenting and pity. When death, 
the great Reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that 
we repent of, but our severity. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE RECTOR. 

Before twelve o’clock there had been some heavy storms 
of rain, and the water lay in deep gutters on the sides of the 
gravel-walks in the garden of Broxton Parsonage ; the great 
Provence roses had been cruelly tossed by the wind and beaten 
by the rain, and all the delicate-stemmed border flowers had 
been dashed down and stained with the wet soil. A mel- 
ancholy morning — because it was nearly time hay-harvest 
should begin, and instead of that the meadows were likely to 
be flooded. 

But people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments 
that they would never think of but for the rain. If it had 
not been a wet morning, Mr. Irwine would not have been in 
the dining-room playing at chess with his mother, and he 
loves both his mother and chess quite well enough to pass 
some cloudy hours very easily by their help. Let me take 
you into that dining-room, and show you the Rev. Adolphus 
Irwine, Rector of Broxton, Vicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of 
Blythe, a pluralist at whom the severest Church reformer 
would have found it difficult to look sour. We will enter 
very softly, and stand still in the open doorway, without 


THE HECTOR. 


55 


awaking the glossy-crown setter who is stretched across the 
hearth, with her two puppies beside her ; or the pug, who is 
dozing, with his black muzzle aloft, like a sleepy president. 

The room is a large and lofty one, with an ample mullioned 
oriel window at one end ; the walls, you see, are new, and not 
yet painted ; but the furniture, though originally of an expen- 
sive sort, is old and scanty, and there is no drapery about the 
window. The crimson cloth over the large dining-table is very 
threadbare, though it contrasts pleasantly enough with the 
dead hue of the plaster on the walls ; but on this cloth there 
is a massive silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of 
the same pattern as two larger ones that are propped up on 
the sideboard with a coat of arms conspicuous in their centre. 
You suspect at once that the inhabitants of this room have 
inherited more blood than wealth, and would not be surprised 
to find that Mr. Irwine had a finely cut nostril and upper lip ; 
but at present we can only see that he has a broad flat back 
and an abundance of powdered hair, all thrown backward and 
tied behind with a black ribbon — a bit of conservatism in 
costume which tells you that he is not a young man. He 
will perhaps turn round by-and-by, and in the mean time we 
can look at that stately old lady, his mother, a beautiful aged 
brunette, whose rich-toned complexion is well set off by the 
complex wrappings of pure white cambric and lace about her 
head and neck. She is as erect in her comely embonpoint as a 
statue of Ceres ; and her dark face, with its delicate aquiline 
nose, firm proud mouth, and small intense black eye, is so 
keen and sarcastic in its expression that you instinctively sub- 
stitute a pack of cards for the chess-men, and imagine her 
telling your fortune. The small brown hand with which she 
is lifting her queen is laden with pearls, diamonds, and tur- 
quoises ; and a large black veil is very carefully adjusted over 
the crown of her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the white 
folds about her neck. It must take a long time to dress that 
old lady in the morning ! But it seems a law of nature that 
she should be dressed so : she is clearly one of those children 
of royalty who have never doubted their right divine, and 
never met with any one so absurd as to question it. 


56 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ There, Dauphin, tell me what that is ! ” says this magnifi. 
cent old lady, as she deposits her queen very quietly and folds 
her arms. “ I should be sorry to utter a word disagreeable to 
your feelings.” 

“ Ah ! you witch-mother, you sorceress ! How is a Christian 
man to win a game off you ? I should have sprinkled the 
hoard with holy water before we began. You ’ve not won that 
game by fair means, now, so don’t pretend it.” 

“Yes, yes, that’s what the beaten have always said of 
great conquerors. But see, there’s the sunshine falling on 
the board, to show you more clearly what a foolish move 
you made with that pawn. Come, shall I give you another 
chance ? ” 

“Ho, mother, I shall leave you to your own conscience, now 
it ’s clearing up. We must go and plash up the mud a little, 
must n’t we, J uno ? ” This was addressed to the brown setter, 
who had jumped up at the sound of the voices and laid her 
nose in an insinuating way on her master’s leg. “ But I must 
go up-stairs first and see Anne. I was called away to Tholer’s 
funeral just when I was going before.” 

“ It ’s of no use, child ; she can’t speak to you. Kate says 
she has one of her worst headaches this morning.” 

“ Oh, she likes me to go and see her just the same ; she ’s 
never too ill to care about that.” 

If you know how much of human speech is mere purposeless 
impulse or habit, you will not wonder when I tell you that 
this identical objection had been made, and had received the 
same kind of answer, many hundred times in the course of 
the fifteen years that Mr. Irwine’s sister Anne had been an 
invalid. Splendid old ladies, who take a long time to dress 
in the morning, have often slight sympathy with sickly 
daughters. 

But while Mr. Irwine was still seated, leaning back in his 
chair and stroking Juno's head, the servant came to the door 
and said, “If you please, sir, Joshua Rann wishes to speak 
with you, if you are at liberty.” 

“ Let him be shown in here,” said Mrs. Irwine, taking up 
her knitting. “ I always likfl to hear what Mr. Rann has got 


THE RECTOR. 57 

to say. His shoes will be dirty, but see that he wipes them, 
Carroll.” 

In two minutes M*. Rann appeared at the door with very 
deferential bows, which, however, were far from conciliating 
Pug, who gave a sharp bark, and ran across the room to recon- 
noitre the stranger’s legs ; while the two puppies, regarding 
Mr. Rann’s prominent calf and ribbed worsted stockings from 
a more sensuous point of view, plunged and growled over 
them in great enjoyment. Meantime, Mr. Irwine turned 
round his chair and said — 

“Well, Joshua, anything the matter at Hay slope, that 
you ’ve come over this damp morning ? Sit down, sit down. 
ISTever mind the dogs ; give them a friendly kick. Here, Pug, 
you rascal ! ” 

It is very pleasant to see some men turn round ; pleasant 
as a sudden rush of warm air in winter, or the flash of fire- 
light in the chill dusk. Mr. Irwine was one of those men. 
He bore the same sort of resemblance to his mother that our 
loving memory of a friend’s face often bears to the face itself : 
the lines were all more generous, the smile brighter, the ex- 
pression heartier. If the outline had been less finely cut, his 
face might ha.ve been called jolly ; but that was not the right 
word for its mixture of bonhomie and distinction. 

“ Thank your reverence,” answered Mr. Rann, endeavoring 
to look unconcerned about his legs, but shaking them alter- 
nately to keep off the puppies ; “ I ’ll stand, if you please, as 
more becoming. I hope I see you an’ Mrs. Irwine well, an’ 
Miss Irwine — an’ Miss Anne, I hope ’s as well as usual.” 

“Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming my 
mother looks. She beats us younger people hollow. But 
what ’s the matter ? ” 

“ Why, sir, I had to come to Brox’on to deliver some work, 
and I thought it but right to call and let you know the goins- 
on as there ’s been i’ the village, such as I hanna seen i’ my 
time, and I ’ve lived in it man and boy sixty year come St. 
Thomas, and collected th’ Easter dues for Mr. Blick before 
your reverence come into the parish, and been at the ringin' 
o’ erery bell, and the diggm' o’ every grave, and sung i’ the 


58 


ADAM BEDE. 


quire long alore Bartle Massey come from nobody knows 
where, wi’ his counter-singin’ and fine anthems, as puts every- 
body out but himself — one takin’ it up after another like sheep 
a-bleatin’ i’ th’ fold. I know what belongs to bein’ a parish 
clerk, and I know as I should be wantin’ i’ respect to your 
reverence, an’ church, an’ king, if I was t’ allow such goins-on 
wi’out speakin’. I was took by surprise, an’ knowed nothin 0 
on it beforehand, an’ I was so flustered, I was clean as if I ’d 
lost my tools. I hanna slep’ more nor four hour this night 
as is past an’ gone ; an’ then it was nothin’ but nightmare, as 
tired me worse nor wakin’.” 

“ Why, what in the world is the matter, J oshua ? Have 
the thieves been at the church lead again ? ” 

“ Thieves ! no, sir, — an’ yet, as I may say, it is thieves, an’ 
a-thievin’ the church, too. It ’s the Methodisses as is like 
to get th’ upper hand i’ th’ parish, if your reverence an’ his 
honor, Squire Donnithorne, doesna think well to say the word 
an’ forbid it. Not as I ’m a-dictatin’ to you, sir ; I ’m not 
forgettin’ myself so far as to be wise above my betters. How- 
iver, whether I ’m wise or no, that ’s neither here nor there, 
but what I ’ve got zo say I say — as the young Methodis 
woman, as is at Mester Poyser’s, was a-preachin’ an’ a-prayin’ 
on the Green last night, as sure as I ’m a-stannin’ afore your 
reverence now.” 

“ Preaching on the Green ! ” said Mr. Irwine, looking sur- 
prised but quite serene. “ What, that pale pretty young 
woman I ’ve seen at Poyser’s ? I saw she was a Methodist, 
or Quaker, or something of that sort, by her dress, but I 
didn’t know she was a preacher.” 

“ It ’s a true word as I say, sir,” rejoined Mr. Rann, com* 
pressing his mouth into a semicircular form, and pausing long 
enough to indicate three notes of exclamation. “ She preached 
on the Green last night ; an’ she ’s laid hold of Chad’s BesSj 
as the girl ’s been i’ fits welly iver sin’.” 

“ Well, Bessy Cranage is a hearty-looking lass ; I dare say 
she’ll come round again, Joshua. Did anybody else go intG 
fits?” 

“ No, sir, I canna say as they did. But there *s no knowin' 


THE RECTOR. 


59 


what f ll come, if we ’re t’ have such preachins as that a-goin’ 
on ivery week — there ’ll be no livin’ i’ th’ village. For them 
Methodisses make folks believe as if they take a mug o’ drink 
extry, an’ make their selves a bit comfortable, they ’ll have to 
go to hell for ’t as sure as they ’re born. I ’m not a tipplin’ 
man nor a drunkard — nobody can say it on me — but I like 
a extry quart at Easter or Christmas time, as is nat’ral when 
we ’re goin’ the rounds a-singin’, an’ folks offer ’t you for 
nothin’ ; or when I ’m a- collectin’ the dues ; an’ I like a pint 
wi’ my pipe, an’ a neighborly chat at Mester Casson’s now an’ 
then, for I was brought up i’ the Church, thank God, an’ ha’ 
been a parish clerk this two-an’-thirty year : I should know 
what the church religion is.” 

"Well, what’s your advice, Joshua? What do you think 
should be done ? ” 

“ Well, your reverence, I ’m not for takin’ any measures 
again’ the young woman. -She ’s well enough if she ’d let 
alone preachin’ ; an’ I hear as she ’s a-goin’ away back to her 
own country soon. She ’s Mr. Poyser’s own niece, an’ I donna 
wish to say what ’s anyways disrespectful o’ th’ family at th’ 
Hall Farm, as I ’ve measured for shoes, little an’ big, welly 
iver sin’ I ’ve been a shoemaker. But there ’s that Will 
Maskery, sir, as is the rampageousest Methodis as can be, an’ 
I make no doubt it was him as stirred up th’ young woman 
to preach last night, an’ he ’ll be a-bringin’ other folks to 
preach from Treddles’on, if his comb is n’t cut a bit ; an’ I 
think as he should be let know as he isna t’ have the makin’ 
an’ mendin’ o’ church carts an’ implemens, let alone stayin’ i’ 
that house an’ yard as is Squire Donnithorne’s.” 

"Well, but you say yourself, Joshua, that you never knew 
any one come to preach on the Green before ; why should you 
think they ’ll come again ? The Methodists don’t come to 
preach in little villages like Hay slope, where there ’s only a 
handful of laborers, too tired to listen to them. They might 
almost as well go and preach on the Binton Hills. Will 
Maskery is no preacher' himself, I think.” 

"Nay, sir, he ’s no gift at stringin’ the words together wi’out 
book ; he ’d be stuck fast like a eow i’ wet clay. But he ’s got 


60 


ADAM BEDE. 


tongue enough to speak disrespectful about ’s neebors, for he 
said as I was a blind Pharisee ; — a-usin’ the Bible i’ that way 
to find nicknames for folks as are his elders an’ betters ! — and 
what ’s worse, he ’s been heard to say very unbecomin’ words 
about your reverence ; for I could bring them as ’ud swear as 
he called you a ‘ dumb dog,’ an’ a ' idle shepherd.’ You ’ll for- 
gi’e me for say in’ such things over again.” 

“ Better not, better not, Joshua. Let evil words die as soon 
as they ’re spoken. Will Maskery might be a great deal worse 
fellow than he is. He used to be a wild drunken rascal, neg- 
lecting his work and beating his wife, they told me ; now he ’s 
thrifty and decent, and he and his wife look comfortable to- 
gether. If you can bring me any proof that he interferes with 
his neighbors, and creates any disturbance, I shall think it my 
duty as a clergyman and a magistrate to interfere. But it 
would n’t become wise people, like you and me, to be making 
a, fuss about trifles, as if we thought the Church was in danger 
because Will Maskery lets his tongue wag rather foolishly, or 
a young woman talks in a serious way to a handful of people 
on the Green. We must ‘ live and let live,’ Joshua, in religion 
as well as in other things. You go on doing your duty, as 
parish clerk and sexton, as well as you’ve always done it, and 
making those capital thick boots for your neighbors, and 
things won’t go far wrong in Hayslope, depend upon it.” 

“ Your reverence is very good to say so ; an’ I ’m sensable as, 
you not livin’ i’ the parish, there’s more upo’ my shoulders.” 

“To be sure; and you must mind and not lower the Church 
in people’s eyes by seeming to be frightened about it for a 
little thing, Joshua. I shall trust to your good sense, now, to 
take no notice at all of what Will Maskery says, either about 
you or me. You and your neighbors can go on taking your pot 
of beer soberly, when you ’ve done your day’s work, like good 
churchmen ; and if Will Maskery does n’t like to join you, but 
to go to a prayer-meeting at Treddleston instead, let him ; 
that’s no business of yours, so long as he does n’t hinder you 
from doing what you like. And as to people saying a few idle 
words about us, we must not mind that, any more than the old 
church steeple minds the rooks cawing about it. Will Maskery 


THE RECTOR. 


61 


comes to church every Sunday afternoon, and does his wheel 
Wright* 3 business steadily in the week-days, and as long as he 
does that he must be let alone.” 

u Ah, sir, but when he comes to church, he sits an* shakes 
his head, an looks as sour an’ as coxy when we ’re a-singin’, 

as I should like to fetch him a rap across the jowl God 

forgi’e me — an’ Mrs. Irwine, an’ your reverence, too, for 
speakin’ so afore you. An’ he said as our Christmas singin* 
was no better nor the cracklin’ o’ thorns under a pot.” 

“ Well, he ’s got a bad ear for music, J oshua. When people 
have wooden heads, you know, it can’t be helped. He won’t 
bring the other people in Hay slope round to his opinion, while 
you go on singing as well as you do.” 

“Yes, sir, but it turns a man’s stomach t’ hear the Scripture 
misused i’ that way. I know as much o’ the words o’ the Bible 
as he does, an’ could say the Psalms right through i’ my sleep 
if you was to pinch me ; but I know better nor to take ’em to 
say my own say wi\ I mignt as well take the Sacriment-cup 
home and use it at meals.” 

“That’s a very sensible remark of yours, Joshua; but, as I 
said before — ” 

While Mr. Irwine was speaking, the sound of a booted step, 
and the clink of a spur, were heard on the stone floor of the 
entrance-hall, and Joshua Rann moved hastily aside from the 
door-way to make room for some one who paused there, and 
said, in a ringing tenor voice — 

“ Godson Arthur ; — may he come in ? ” 

“ Come in. come in, godson ! ” Mrs. Irwine answered, in the 
deep half-masculine tone which belongs to the vigorous old 
woman, and there entered a young gentleman in a riding-dress, 
with his right arm in a sling; whereupon followed that pleas- 
ant confusion of laughing interjections, and hand-shakings, and 
“ How are you’s ? ” mingled with joyous short barks and wag- 
ging of tails on the part of the canine members of the family, 
which tells that the visitor is on the best terms with the vis- 
ited. The young gentleman was Arthur Donnithorne, known 
in Hayslope, variously, as “the young squire,” “the heir,” and 
“the captain.” He was only a captain in the Loamshire 


62 


ADAM BEDE. 


Militia ; but to the Hayslope tenants he was more intensely & 
captain than all the young gentlemen of the same rank in his 
Majesty’s regulars — he outshone them as the planet Jupiter 
outshines the Milky Way. If you want to know more par- 
ticularly how he looked, call to your remembrance some 
tawny-whiskered, brown-locked, clear-complexioned young 
Englishman whom you have met with in a foreign town, and 
been proud of as a fellow-countryman — well-washed, high- 
bred, white-handed, yet looking as if he could deliver well from 
the left shoulder, and floor his man : I will not be so much of 
a tailor as to trouble your imagination with the difference of 
costume, and insist on the striped waistcoat, long-tailed coat, 
and low top-boots. 

Turning round to take a chair, Captain Donnithorne said 
“But don’t let me interrupt Joshua’s business — he has some- 
thing to say.” 

“ Humbly begging your honor’s pardon,” said J oshua, bow- 
ing low, “there was one thing I had to say to his reverence as 
other things had drove out o’ my head.” 

“Out with it, Joshua, quickly ! ” said Mr. Irwine. 

“Belike, sir, you havena heared as Thias Bede’s dead — 
drownded this morning, or more like overnight, i’ the Willow 
Brook, again’ the bridge right i’ front o’ the house.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed both the gentlemen at once, as if they 
were a good deal interested in the information. 

“An’ Seth Bede ’s been to me this morning to say he wished 
me to tell your reverence as his brother Adam begged of you 
particular t’ allow his father’s grave to be dug by the White 
Thorn, because his mother ’s set her heart on it, on account of. 
a dream as she had ; an’ they ’d ha’ come theirselves to ask 
you, but they’ve so much to see after with the crowner, an* 
that ; an’ their mother ’s took on so, an’ wants ’em to make 
sure o’ the spot for fear somebody else should take it. An’ if 
your reverence sees well and good, I ’ll send my boy to tell ’em 
as soon as I get home ; an’ that ’« why I make bold to trouble 
you wi’ it, his honor being present.” 

“ To be sure, Joshua, to be sure, they shall have it. I ’ll 
ride round to Adam myself* and see him. Send your boy 


THE RECTOR. 


63 


however, to say they shall have the grave, lest anything should 
happen to detain me. And now, good morning, Joshua ; go 
into the kitchen and have some ale.” 

“Poor old Thias !” said Mr. Xrwine, when Joshua was gone. 
“ I ’m afraid the drink helped the brook to drown him. I 
should have been glad for the load to have been taken off my 
friend Adam’s shoulders in a less painful way. That fine 
fellow has been propping up his father from ruin for the last 
five or six years.” 

“ He ’s a regular trump, is Adam,” said Captain Donnithorne. 
“ When I was a little fellow, and Adam was a strapping lad of 
fifteen, and taught me carpentering, I used to think if ever I 
was a rich sultan, I would make A dam my grand-vizier. And 
I believe now, he would bear the exaltation as well as any 
poor wise man in an Eastern story. If ever I live to be a 
large-acred man instead of a poor devil with a mortgaged al 
lowance of pocket-money, I ’ll have Adam for my right hand. 
He shall manage my woods for me, for he seems to have a 
better notion of those things than any man I ever met with; 
and I know he would make twice the money of them that my 
grandfather does, with that miserable old Satchell to manage, 
who understands no more about timber than an old carp. I ’ve 
mentioned the subject to my grandfather once or twice, but 
for some reason or other he has a dislike to Adam, and I can 
do nothing. But come, your reverence, are you for a ride with 
me ? It ’s splendid out of doors now. We can go to Adam’s 
together, if you like ; but I want to call at the Hall Farm on 
my way, to look at the whelps Poyser is keeping for me.” 

“ You must stay and have lunch first, Arthur,” said Mrs. 
Irwin e. “ It ’s nearly two. Carroll will bring it in directly.” 

“ I want to go to the Hall Farm too,” said Mr. Irwine, “ to 
have another look at the little Methodist who is staying there. 
Joshua tells me she was preaching on the Green last night.” 

“Oh, by Jove ! ” said Captain Donnithorne, laughing. “Why, 
she looks as quiet as a mouse. There’s something rather 
striking about her, though. I positively felt quite bashful the 
first time I saw her : she was sitting stooping over her sewing 
in the sunshine outside the hous^ when I rode up and called 


64 


ADAM BEDE. 


out, without noticing that she was a stranger, 4 Is Martin Poy 
ser at home ? ’ I declare, when she got up and looked at me, 
and just said, 1 He ’s in the house, I believe : I ’ll go and call 
him,’ I felt quite ashamed of having spoken so abruptly to hen 
She looked like St. Catherine in a Quaker dress. It ’s a type 
of face one rarely sees among our common people.” 

“ I should like to see the young woman, Dauphin,” sai ; 
Mrs. Irwine. “Make her come here on some pretext oi 
other.” 

“I don’t know how I can manage that, mother; it will 
hardly do for me to patronize a Methodist preacher, even if 
she would consent to be patronized by an idle shepherd, as 
Will Maskery calls me. You should have come in a little 
sooner, Arthur, to hear Joshua’s denunciation of his neighbor 
Will Maskery. The old fellow wants me to excommunicate 
the wheelwright, and then deliver him over to the civil arm 
— that is to say, to your grandfather — to be turned out of 
house and yard. If I chose to interfere in this business, now, 
I might get up as pretty a story of hatred and persecution as 
the Methodists need desire to publish in the next number of 
their magazine. It would n’t take me much trouble to persuade 
Chad Cranage and half-a-dozen other bull-headed fellows, that 
they would be doing an acceptable service to the Church by 
hunting Will Maskery out of the village with rope-ends and 
pitchforks ; and then, when I had furnished them with half a 
sovereign to get gloriously drunk after their exertions, I should 
have put the climax to as pretty a farce as any of my brother 
clergy have set going in their parishes for the last thirty 
years.” 

“It is really insolent of the man, though, to call you an 
4 idle shepherd,’ and a ‘dumb dog,”’ said Mrs. Irwine: “I 
should be inclined to check him a little there. You are too 
easy-tempered, Dauphin.” 

“Why, mother, you don’t think it would be a good way of 
sustaining my dignity to set about vindicating myself from the 
aspersions of Will Maskery ? Besides, I ’m not so sure that 
they are aspersions. I am a lazy fellow, and get terribly 
heavy in my saddle ; not to mention that I ’m always spend 


THE RECTOR. 


65 


mg more than I can afford in bricks and mortar, so that I get 
savage at a lame beggar when he asks me for sixpence. Those 
poor lean cobblers, who think they can help to regenerate 
mankind by setting out to preach in the morning twilight 
before they begin their day’s work, may well have a poor opin- 
ion of me. But come, let us have our luncheon. Is n’t Kate 
3ming to lunch ? ” 

“ Miss Irwine told Bridget to take her lunch up-stairs,” said 
Carroll ; “she can’t leave Miss Anne.” 

“Oh, very well. Tell Bridget to say I’ll go up and see 
Miss Anne presently. You can use your right arm quite well, 
now, Arthur,” Mr. Irwine continued, observing that Captain 
Donnithorne had taken his arm out of the sling. 

“ Yes, pretty well ; but Godwin insists on my keeping it up 
constantly for some time to come. I hope I shall be able to 
get away to the regiment, though, in the beginning of August 
It ’s a desperately dull business being shut up at the Chase in 
the summer months, when one can neither hunt nor shoot, so 
as to make one’s self pleasantly sleepy in the evening. How- 
ever, we are to astonish the echoes on the 30th of July. My 
grandfather has given me carte blanche for once, and I prom- 
ise you the entertainment shall be worthy of the occasion. 
The world will not see the grand epoch of my majority twice. 
I think I shall have a lofty throne for you, godmamma, or rathei 
two, one on the lawn and another in the ball-room, that you 
may sit and look down upon us like an Olympian goddess.” 

“ I mean to bring out my best brocade, that I wore at j^our 
christening twenty years ago,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Ah, I 
think I shall see your poor mother flitting about in her white 
dress, which looked to me almost like a shroud that very day ; 
and it was her shroud only three months after ; and your little 
cap and christening dress were buried with her too. She had 
s»Jt hex heart on that, sweet soul ! Thank God you take after 
your mother’s family, Arthur. If you had been a puny, wiry, 
yellow baby, I wouldn’t have stood godmother to you. I 
should have been sure you would turn out a Donnithorne. 
But you were such a broad-faced, broad-chested, loud-screaming 
rascal, I knew yon were every inch of you a Tradgett.” 


Yn.. i. 


66 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ But you might have been a little too hasty there, mother,” 
said Mr. Irwine, smiling. “Don’t you remember how it was 
with Juno’s last pups ? One of them was the very image of 
its mother, but it had two or three of its father’s tricks not- 
withstanding. Nature is clever enough to cheat even you, 
mother.” 

“Nonsense, child! Nature never makes a ferret in the 
shape of a mastiff. You’ll never persuade me that I can’t tell 
what men are by their outsides. If I don’t like a man’s looks, 
depend upon it I shall never like him. I don’t want to know 
people that look ugly and disagreeable, any more than I want 
to taste dishes that look disagreeable. If they make me 
shudder at the first glance, I say, take them away. An ugly, 
piggish, or fishy eye, now, makes me feel quite ill; it’s like a 
bad smell.” 

“Talking of eyes,” said Captain Donnithorne, “that re- 
minds me that I ’ve got a book I meant to bring you, god- 
mamma. It came down in a parcel from London the other 
day. I know you are fond of queer, wizard-like stories. It ’s 
a volume of poems, ‘ Lyrical Ballads : ’ most of them seem to 
be^twaddling stuff; but the first is in a different style — ‘ The 
Ancient Mariner ’ is the title. I can hardly make head or tail 
of it as a story, but it ’s a strange, striking thing. I ’ll send 
it over to you; and there are some other books that you may 
like to see, Irwine — pamphlets about Antinomianism and 
Evangelicalism, whatever they may be. I can’t think what 
the fellow means by sending such things to me. I ’ve written 
to him, to desire that from henceforth he will send me no book 
or pamphlet on anything that ends in ism. ” 

“Well, I don’t know that I’m very fond of isms myself; 
but I may as well look at the pamphlets; they let one see 
what is going on. I ’ve a little matter to attend to, Arthur,” 
continued Mr. Irwine, rising to leave the room, “and then I 
shall be ready to set out with you.” 

The little matter that Mr. Irwine had to attend to took him 
up the old stone staircase (part of the house was very old), 
and made him pause before a door at which he knocked 
gently. “ Come in,” said a woman’s voice, and he entered a 


THE RECTOR. 


67 


room so darkened by blinds and curtains that Miss Kate, the 
thin middle-aged lady standing by the bedside, would not have 
had light enough for any other sort of work than the knitting 
which lay on the little table, near her. But at present she was 
doing what required only the dimmest light — sponging the 
aching head that lay on the pillow with fresh vinegar. It was 
a small face, that of the poor sufferer ; perhaps it had once 
been pretty, but now it was worn and sallow. Miss Kate 
came towards her brother and whispered, “ Don’t speak to her ; 
she can’t bear to be spoken to to-day.” Anne’s eyes were 
closed, and her brow contracted as if from intense pain. Mr. 
Irwine went to the bedside, and took up one of the delicate 
hands and kissed it ; a slight pressure from the small fingers 
told him that it was worth while to have come up-stairs for 
the sake of doing that. He lingered a moment, looking at her, 
and then turned away and left the room, treading very gently 
— he had taken off his boots and put on slippers before he 
came up-stairs. Whoever remembers how many things he has 
declined to do even for himself, rather than have the trouble 
of putting on or taking off his boots, will not think this last 
detail insignificant. 

And Mr. Irwine’s sisters, as any person of family within ten 
miles of Broxton could have testified, were such stupid, unin- 
teresting women ! It was quite a pity handsome, clever Mrs. 
Irwine should have had such commonplace daughters. That 
fine old lady herself was worth driving ten miles to see, any 
day; her beauty, her well-preserved faculties, and her old- 
fashioned dignity, made her a graceful subject for conver- 
sation in turn with the King’s health, the sweet new patterns 
in cotton dresses, the news from Egypt, and Lord Dacey’s 
lawsuit, which was fretting poor Lady Dacey to death. But 
no one ever thought of mentioning the Miss Irwines, except 
the poor people in Broxton village, who regarded them as deep 
in the science of medicine, and spoke of them vaguely as “ the 
gentlefolks.” If any one had asked old Job Dummilow who 
gave him his flannel jacket, he would have answered, “the 
gentlefolks, last winter;” and widow Steene dwelt much on 
the virtues of the “stuff” the gentlefolks gave her for her 


68 


ADAM BEDE. 


cough. Under this name, too, they were used with great 
effect as a means of taming refractory children, so that at the 
sight of poor Miss Anne’s sallow face, several small urchins^ 
had a terrified sense that she was .cognizant of all their worst 
misdemeanors, and knew the precise number of stones with 
which they had intended to hit farmer Britton’s ducks. But 
for all who saw them through a less mythical medium, the 
Miss Irwines were quite superfluous existences ; inartistic fig< 
ures crowding the canvas of life without adequate effect. 
Miss Anne, indeed, if her chronic headaches could have been 
accounted for by a pathetic story of disappointed love, might 
have had some romantic interest attached to her ; but no such 
story had either been known or invented concerning her, and 
the general impression was quite in accordance with the fact, 
that both the sisters were old maids for the prosaic reason 
that they had never received an eligible offer. 

Nevertheless, to speak paradoxically, the existence of insig- 
nificant people has very important consequences in the world. 
It can be shown to affect the price of bread and the rate of 
wages, to call forth many evil tempers from the selfish, and 
many heroisms from the sympathetic, and, in other ways, to 
play no small part in the tragedy of life. And if that hand- 
some, generous-blooded clergyman, the Kev. Adolphus Irwine, 
had not had these two hopelessly maiden sisters, his lot would 
have been shaped quite differently : he would very likely have 
taken a comely wife in his youth, and now, when his hair was 
getting gray under the powder, would have had tall sons and 
blooming daughters — such possessions, in short, as men com- 
monly think will repay them for all the labor they take under 
the sun. As it was — having with all his three livings no 
more than seven hundred a year, and seeing no way of keep- 
ing his splendid mother and his sickly sister, not to reckon a 
second sister, who was usually spoken of without any adjec- 
tive, in such lady-like ease as became their birth and habits, 
and at the same time providing for a family of his own — he 
remained, you see, at the age of eight- and-forty, a bachelor, 
not making any merit of that renunciation, but saying laugh- 
ingly, if any one alludedjbo it, that he made it an excuse for 


THE RECTOR. 


69 


many indulgences which a wife would never have allowed him. 
And perhaps he was the only person in the world who did not 
think his sisters uninteresting and superfluous; for his was 
one of those large-hearted, sweet-blooded natures that never 
know a narrow or a grudging thought ; epicurean, if you will, 
with no enthusiasm, no self-scourging sense of duty ; but yet, 
as you have seen, of a sufficiently subtle moral fibre to have 
an unwearying tenderness for obscure and monotonous suffer- 
ing. It was his large-hearted indulgence that made him ignore 
his mother’s hardness towards her daughters, which was the 
more striking from its contrast with her doting fondness to- 
wards himself : he held it no virtue to frown at irremediable 
faults. 

See the difference between the impression a man makes on 
you when you walk by his side in familiar talk, or look at him 
in his home, and the figure he makes when seen from a lofty 
historical level, or even in the eyes of a critical neighbor who 
thinks of him as an embodied system or opinion rather than 
as a man. Mr. Roe, the “ travelling preacher” stationed at 
Treddleston, had included Mr. Irwine in a general statement 
concerning the Church clergy in the surrounding district, 
whom he described as men given up to the lusts of the flesh 
and the pride of life ; hunting and shooting, and adorning 
their own houses ; asking what shall we eat, and what shall 
we drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed ? — careless of 
dispensing the bread of life to their flocks, preaching at best 
but a carnal and soul-benumbing morality, and trafficking in 
the souls of men by receiving money for discharging the pas- 
toral office in parishes where they did not so much as look on 
the faces of the people more than once a year. The ecclesias- 
tical historian, too, looking into parliamentary reports of that 
period, finds honorable members zealous for the Church, and 
untainted with any sympathy for the “ tribe of canting Meth- 
odists,” making statements scarcely less melancholy than that 
of Mr. Roe. And it is impossible for me to say that Mr. 
Irwine was altogether belied by the generic classification as- 
signed him. He really had no very lofty aims, no theological 
enthusiasm : if I were closely Questioned, I should be obliged 


70 


ADAM BEDE. 


to confess that he felt no serious alarms about the souls of his 
parishioners, and would have thought it a mere loss of time 
to talk in a doctrinal and awakening manner to old “ Feyther 
Taft,” or even to Chad Cranage the blacksmith. If he had 
been in the habit of speaking theoretically, he would perhaps 
have said that the only healthy form religion could take in 
such minds was that of certain dim hut strong emotions, suf- 
fusing themselves as a hallowing influence over the family 
affections and neighborly duties. He thought the custom of 
baptism more important than its doctrine, and that the re- 
ligious benefits the peasant drew from the church where his 
fathers worshipped and the sacred piece of turf where they lay 
buried, were but slightly dependent on a clear understanding 
of the Liturgy or the sermon. Clearly the Rector was not 
what is called. in these days an “ earnest” man: he was fonder 
of church histdry than of divinity, and had much more insight 
into men's characters than interest in their opinions ; he was 
neither laborious, nor obviously self-denying, nor very copious 
in almsgiving, and his theology, you perceive, was lax. His 
mental palate, indeed, was rather pagan, and found a savori- 
ness in a quotation from Sophocles or Theocritus that was 
quite absent from any text in Isaiah or Amos. But if you 
feed your young setter on raw flesh, how can you wonder at its 
retaining a relish for uncooked partridge in after-life? and 
Mr. Irwine’s recollections of young enthusiasm and ambition 
were all associated with poetry and ethics that lay aloof from 
the Bible. 

On the other hand, I must plead, for I have an affectionate 
partiality towards the Rector's memory, that he was not vin- 
dictive — and some philanthropists have been so ; that he w r as 
not intolerant — and there is a rumor that some zealous theo- 
logians have not been altogether free from that blemish ; that 
although he would probably have declined to give his body to 
be burned in any public cause, and was far from bestowing all 
his goods to feed the poor, he had that charity which has some- 
times been lacking to very illustrious virtue — he was tender 
to other men's failings, and unwilling to impute evil. He was 
one of those men, and they are not the commonest of whom 


THE HALL FARM. 


71 


we can know the best only by following them away from the 
market-place, the platform, and the pulpit, entering with them 
into their own homes, hearing the voice with which they speak 
to the young and aged about their own hearthstone, and wiL 
nessing their thoughtful care for the every-day wants of every- 
day companions, who take all their kindness as a matter of 
course, and not as a subject for panegyric. 

Such men, happily, have lived in times when great abuses 
flourished, and have sometimes even been the living represen- 
tatives of the abuses. That is a thought which might comfort 
us a little under the opposite fact — that it is better some- 
times not to follow great reformers of abuses beyond the 
threshold of their homes. 

But whatever you may think of Mr. Irwine now, if you had 
met him that June afternoon riding on his gray cob, with his 
dogs running beside him — portly, upright, manly, with a good- 
natured smile on his finely turned lips as he talked to his 
dashing young companion on the bay mare, you must have felt 
that, however ill he harmonized with sound theories of the 
clerical office, he somehow harmonized extremely well with 
that peaceful landscape. 

See them in the bright sunlight, interrupted every now and 
then by rolling masses of cloud, ascending the slope from the 
Broxton side, where the tall gables and elms of the rectory 
predominate over the tiny whitewashed church. They will 
soon be in the parish of Hayslope ; the gray church-tower and 
village roofs lie before them to the left, and farther on, to the 
light, they can just see the chimneys of the Hall Farm. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE HALL FARM. 

Evidently that gate is never opened: for the long grass 
and the great hemlocks grow close against it ; and if it were 
opened, it is so rusty, that the force necessary to turn it on its 


72 


ADAM BEDE. 


hinges would be likely to pull down the square stone-built pil- 
lars, to the detriment of the two stone lionesses which grin 
with a doubtful carnivorous affability above a coat of arms 
surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by 
the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the 
brick wall with its smooth stone coping ; but by putting ouj 
eyes close to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the house 
well enough, and all but the very corners of the grassy 
enclosure. 

It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale 
powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irreg- 
ularity, so as to bring the red brick into terms of friendly 
companionship with the limestone ornaments surrounding the 
three gables, the windows, and the door-place. But the win- 
dows are patched with wooden panes, and the door, I think, is 
like the gate — it is never opened : how it would groan and 
grate against the stone floor if it were ! For it is a solid, 
heavy, handsome door, and must once have been in the habit 
of shutting with a sonorous bang behind a liveried lackey, who 
had just seen his master and mistress off the grounds in a 
carriage and pair. 

But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage 
of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double 
row of walnut-trees on the right hand of the enclosure would 
fall and rot among the grass, if it were not that we heard the 
booming bark of dogs echoing from great buildings at the 
back. And now the half- weaned calves that have been she! 
tering themselves in a gorse-built hovel against the left-hand 
wall, come out and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, 
doubtless supposing that it has reference to buckets of milk. 

Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom; 
for imagination is a licensed trespasser : it has no fear of dogs, 
but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with im- 
punity. Put your face to one of the glass panes in the right- 
hand window : what do you see ? A large open fireplace, with 
rusty dogs in it, and a bare boarded floor ; at the far end, 
fleeces of wool stacked up ; in the middle of the floor, some 
empty corn-bags. That is the furniture of the dining-rooin 



Mrs. Poyser’s Farm, (Ellaston) 




THE HALL FARM. 


73 


And what through the left-hand window ? Several clothes- 
horses, a pillion, a spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open, 
and stuffed full of colored rags. At the edge of this box there 
lies a great wooden doll, which, so far as mutilation is con- 
cerned, bears a strong resemblance to the finest Greek sculp- 
ture, and especially in the total loss of its nose. Near it there 
is a little chair, and the butt-end of a boy’s leather long-lashed 
whip. 

The history of the house is plain now. It was once the resi- 
dence of a country squire, whose family, probably dwindling 
down to mere spinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial 
name of Donnithorne. It was once the Hall ; it is now the 
Hall Farm. Like the life in some coast-town that was once a 
watering-place, and is now a port, where the genteel streets 
are silent and grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses busy 
and resonant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and 
no longer radiates from the parlor, but from the kitchen and 
the farmyard. 

Plenty of life there ! though this is the drowsiest time of 
the year, just before hay-harvest ; and it is the drowsiest time 
* of the day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and it is 
half-past three by Mrs. Poyser’s handsome eight-day clock. 
But there is always a stronger sense of life when the sun is 
brilliant after rain ; and now he is pouring down his beams, 
and making sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting up 
every patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow- 
shed, and turning even the muddy water that is hurrying along 
the channel to the drain into a mirror for the yellow-billed 
ducks, who are seizing the opportunity of getting a drink 
with as much body in it as possible. There is quite a concert 
of noises; the great bull-dog, chained against the stables, is 
thrown into furious exasperation t>y the unwary approach of 
a cock too near the mouth of his kennel, and sends forth a 
thundering bark, which is answered by two fox-hounds shut 
up in the opposite cow-house ; the old top-knotted hens, 
scratching with their chicks among the straw, set up a sym- 
pathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins them ; a sow 
with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled as 


74 


[ADAM BEDE. 


to the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends 
the calves are bleating from the home croft; and, under all, a 
fine ear discerns the continuous hum of human voices. 

For the great barn-doors are thrown wide open, and men 
are busy there mending the harness, under the superintend- 
ence of Mr. Goby the u whittaw,” otherwise saddler, who 
entertains them with the latest Treddleston gossip. It is cer- 
tainly rather an unfortunate day that Alick, the shepherd, has 
chosen for having the whittaws, since the morning turned out 
so wet; and Mrs. Poyser has spoken her mind pretty strongly 
as to the dirt which the extra number of men’s shoes brought 
into the house at dinner-time. Indeed, she has not yet re- 
covered her equanimity on the subject, though it is now nearly 
three hours since dinner, and the house- floor is perfectly clean 
again; as clean as everything else in that wonderful house- 
place, where the only chance of collecting a few grains of 
dust would be to climb on the salt-coffer, and put your finger 
on the high mantel-shelf on which the glittering brass candle- 
sticks are enjoying their summer sinecure; for at this time 
of year, of course, every one goes to bed while it is yet light, 
or at least light enough to discern the outline of objects after 
you have bruised your shins against them. Surely nowhere 
else could an oak clock-case and an oak table have got to such 
a polish by the hand: genuine “ elbow polish,” as Mrs. Poyser 
called it, for she thanked God she never had any of your var- 
nished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often took the 
opportunity, when her aunt’s back was turned, of looking at 
the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, 
for the oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and 
was more for ornament than for use; and she could see her- 
self sometimes in the great round pewter dishes that were 
ranged on the shelves above the long deal dinner-table, or in 
the hobs of the grate, which always shown like jasper. 

Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for 
the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and from their re- 
flecting surfaces pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow 
oak and bright brass; — and on a still pleasanter object than 
these ; for some of the rays fell on Dinah’s finely moulded 


THE HALL FARM. 


T5 


cheek, and lit up her pale red hair to auburn, as she bent over 
the heavy household linen which she was mending for her 
aunt. No scene could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poy- 
ser, who was ironing a few things that still remained from 
the Monday’s wash, had not been making a frequent clinking 
with her iron, and moving to and fro whenever she wanted it 
to cool ; carrying the keen glance of her blue-gray eye from 
the kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty was making up the but- 
ter, and from the dairy to the back-kitchen, where Nancy was 
taking the pies out of the oven. Do not suppose, however, 
that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or shrewish in her appearance ; 
she was a good-looking woman, not more than eight-and-thirty, 
of fair complexion and sandy hair, well-shapen, light-footed; 
the most conspicuous article in her attire was an ample check- 
ered linen apron, which almost covered her skirt; and nothing 
could be plainer or less noticeable than her cap and gown, for 
there was no weakness of which she was less tolerant than 
feminine vanity, and the preference of ornament to utility. 
The family likeness between her and her niece Dinah Morris, 
with the contrast between her keenness and Dinah’s seraphic 
gentleness of expression, might have served a painter as an 
excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their eyes were 
just of the same color, but a striking test of the difference in 
their operation was seen in the demeanor of Trip, the black- 
and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog unwarily 
exposed himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser’s 
glance. Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, and- 
whenever a damsel came within earshot, seemed to take up an 
unfinished lecture, as a barrel-organ takes up a tune, precisely 
at the point where it had left off. 

The fact that it was churning-day was another reason 
why it was inconvenient to have the whittaws, and why, con- 
sequently, Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with 
unusual severity. To all appearance Molly had got through 
her after-dinner work in an exemplary manner, had “ cleaned 
herself ” with great despatch, and now came to ask, submis- 
sively, if she should sit down to her spinning till milking- 
time. But this blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser 


76 


ADAM BEDE. 


shrouded a secret indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which sne 
now dragged forth and held up to Molly’s view with cutting 
eloquence. 

“ Spinning, indeed ! It is n’t spinning as you ’d be at, I ’ll 
be bound, and let you have your own way. I never knew 
your equals for gallowsness. To think of a gell o’ your age 
wanting to go and sit with half-a-dozen men ! I ’d ha' been 
ashamed to let the words pass over my lips if I ’d been you. 
And you, as have been here ever since last Michaelmas, and I 
hired you at Treddles’on stattits, without a bit o’ character — 
as I say, you might be grateful to be hired in that way to a 
respectable place ; and you knew no more o’ what belongs to 
work when you come here than the mawkin i’ the field. As 
poor a two-fisted thing as ever I saw, you know you was. 
Who taught you to scrub a floor, I should like to know ? 
Why, you ’d leave the dirt in heaps i’ the corners - — anybody 
’ud think you’d never been brought up among Christians. 
And as for spinning, why, you’ve wasted as much as your 
wage i’ the flax you ’ve spoiled learning to spin. And you’ve 
a right to feel that, and not to go about as gaping and as 
thoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody. Comb the 
wool for the whittaws, indeed ! That ’s what you ’d like to be 
doing, is it ? That ’s the way with you — that ’s the road you ’d 
all like to go, headlongs to ruin. You’re never easy till you ’ve 
got some sweetheart as is as big a fool as yourself : you think 
you’ll be finely off when you’re married, I dare say, and have 
got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket to cover 
you, and a bit o’ oat-cake for your dinner, as three children 
?.re a-snatching at.” 

“ I ’in sure I donna want t’ go wi’ the whittaws,” said Molly, 
whimpering, and quite overcome by this Dantean picture of 
her future, “on’y we allays used to comb the wool for ’n at 
Mester Ottley’s ; an’ so I just asked ye. T donna want to set 
eyes on the whittaws again; I wish I may never stir if I do.’ 5 

“ Mr. Ottley’s, indeed ! It ’s fine talking o’ what you did at 
Mr. Ottley’s. Your missis there might like her floors dirted 
wi’ whittaws for what I know. There ’s no knowing what 
people wonna like — such ways as 1 ’ve heard of I I never had 


THE HALL FARM. 


77 


a gel! come into my house as seemed to know what cleaning 
was ; I think people live like pigs, for my part. And as to 
that Betty as was dairymaid at Trent’s before she come to me, 
she ’d ha’ left the cheeses without turning from week’s end to 
week’s end, and the dairy thralls, I might ha’ wrote my name 
on ’em, when I come down-stairs after my illness, as the doctor 
said it was inflammation — it was a mercy I got well of it. 
And to think o’ your knowing no better, Molly, and been here 
a-going i’ nine months, and not for want o’ talking to, neither 
— -and what are you stanning there for, like a jack as is run 
down, instead o’ getting your wheel out ? You ’re a rare un 
for sitting down to your work a little while after it ’s time to 
put by.” 

“ Munny, my iron ’s twite told ; pease put it down to 
warm.” 

The small chirruping voice that uttered this request came 
from a little sunny-h aired girl between three and four, who, 
seated on a high chair at the end of the ironing-table, was 
arduously clutching the handle of a miniature iron with her 
tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with an assiduity that required 
her to put her little red tongue out as far as anatomy would 
allow. 

“ Cold, is it, my darling ? Bless your sweet face ! ” said 
Mrs. Poyser, who was remarkable for the facility with which 
she could relapse from her official objurgatory to one of fond- 
ness or of friendly converse. “ Never mind! Mother’s done 
her ironing now. She ’s going to put the ironing things away.” 

“ Munny, I tould ’ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see de 
whittawd.” 

“ ISTo, no, no ; Totty ’ud get her feet wet,” said Mrs. Poyser, 
carrying away her iron. “ Run into the dairy and see cousin 
Hetty make the butter.” 

“ I tould ’ike a bit o’ pum-take,” rejoined Totty, who seemed 
to be provided with several relays of requests; at the same 
time, taking the opportunity of her momentary leisure to 
put her fingers into a bowl of starch, and drag it down, so as 
to empty the contents with tolerable completeness on to the 
ironing-sheet; 


78 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Did ever anybody see the like ? ” screamed Mrs. Poyser* 
running towards the table when her eye had fallen on the blue 
stream. “ The child ’s allays i’ mischief if your back ’s turned 
a minute What shall I do to you, you naughty, naughty gell ? y 

Totty, however, had descended from her chair with great 
swiftness, and was already in retreat towards the dairy with a 
sort of waddling run, and an amount of fat on the nape of her 
neck, which made her look like the metamorphosis of a white 
sucking-pig. 

The starch having been wiped up by Molly’s help, and the 
ironing apparatus put by, Mrs. Poyser took up her knitting, 
which always lay ready at hand, and was the work she liked 
best, because she could carry it on automatically as she walked 
to and fro. But now she came and sat down opposite Dinah, 
whom she looked at in a meditative way, as she knitted her 
gray worsted stocking. 

“ You look tld image o’ your aunt Judith, Dinah, when you 
sit a-sewing. I could almost fancy it was thirty years back, 
and I was a little gell at home, looking at Judith as she sat 
at her work, after she ’d done the house up ; only it was a little 
cottage, father’s was, and not a big rambling house as gets 
dirty i’ one corner as fast as you clean it in another ; but for 
all that, I could fancy you was your aunt Judith, only her 
hair was a deal darker than yours, and she was stouter and 
broader i’ the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together, 
though she had such queer ways, but your mother and her 
never could agree. Ah ! your mother little thought as she ’d 
have a daughter just cut out after the very pattern o’ Judith, 
and leave her an orphan, too, for Judith to take care on, 
and bring up with a spoon when she was in the graveyard at 
Stoniton. I allays said that o’ Judith, as she ’d bear a pound 
weight any day, to save anybody else carrying a ounce. And 
she was just the same from the first o’ my remembering her ; 
it made no difference in her, as I could see, when she took to 
the Methodists, only she talked a bit different, and wore a 
different sort o’ cap ; but she ’d never in her life spent a penny 
on herself more than keeping herself decent” 

“ She was a blessed woman,” jsaid Dinah; “ Trod had given 


THE HALL FARM. 


79 


her a loving, self-forgetting nature, and he perfected it by- 
grace. And she was very fond of you too, aunt Rachel. I ’ve 
often heard her talk of you in the same sort of way. When 
she had that bad illness, and I was only eleven years old, 
she used to say, 4 You ’ll have a friend on earth in your aunt 
Rachel, if I ’m taken from you ; for she has a kind heart; ’ and 
I ’m sure I ’ve found it so.” 

“I don’t know how, child; anybody ’ud be cunning to do 
anything for you, I think; you ’re like the birds o’ th’ air, and 
live nobody knows how. I’d lia’ been glad to behave to you 
like a mother’s sister, if you ’d come and live i’ this country, 
where there ’s some shelter and victual for man and beast, and 
folks don’t live on the naked hills, like poultry a-scratching 
on a gravel bank. And then you might get married to some 
decent man, and there ’d be plenty ready to have you, if you ’d 
only leave off that preaching, as is ten times worse than any- 
thing your aunt J udith ever did. And even if you ’d marry 
Seth Bede, as is a poor wool-gathering Methodist, and ’s never 
like to have a penny beforehand, I know your uncle ’ud help 
you with a pig, and very like a cow, for he ’s allays been good- 
natur’d to my kin, for all they ’re poor, and made ’em welcome 
to the house; and ’ud do for you, I ’ll be bound, as much as 
ever he ’d do for Hetty, though she ’s his own niece. And 
there ’s linen in the house as I could well spare you, for I ’ve 
got lots o’ sheeting and table-clothing, and towelling, as is n’t 
made up. There ’s a piece o’ sheeting I could give you as that 
squinting Kitty spun — she was a rare girl to spin, for all she 
squinted, and the children could n’t abide her; and, you know, 
the spinning ’s going on constant, and there ’s new linen wove 
twice as fast as the old wears out. But where ’s the use o’ 
talking, if ye wonna be persuaded, and settle down like any 
other woman in her senses, istead o’ wearing yourself out 
with walking and preaching, and giving away every penny you 
get, so as you ’ve nothing saved against sickness; and all the 
things you ’ve got i’ the world, I verily believe, ’ud go into a 
bundle no bigger nor a double cheese. And all because you ’ve 
got notions i’ your head about religion more nor what ’s i’ the 
Catechism and the Prayer-book.” 


80 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ But not more than what ’s in the Bible, aunt,” said Dinah. 

“ Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter,” Mrs. Poyser re- 
joined, rather sharply ; “ else why should n’t them as know 
best what ’s in the Bible — the parsons and people as have got 
nothing to do but learn it — do the same as you do ? But, for 
the matter o’ that, if everybody was to do iike you, the world 
must come to a standstill ; for if everybody tried to do without 
house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and was 
allays talking as we must despise the things o’ the world, as 
you say, I should like to know where the pick o’ the stock, 
and the corn, and the best new-milk cheeses ’ud have to 
go. Everybody ’ud be wanting bread made o’ tail ends, and 
everybody ’ud be running after everybody else to preach to 
’em, istead o’ bringing up their families, and laying by against 
a bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can’t be the right 
religion.” 

“Nay, dear aunt, you never heard me say that all people 
are called to forsake their work and their families. It ’s quite 
right the land should be ploughed and sowed, and the precious 
corn stored, and the things of this life cared for, and right that 
people should rejoice in their families, and provide for them, 
so that this is done in the fear of the Lord, and that they are 
not unmindful of the soul’s wants while they are caring for 
the body c We can all be servants of God wherever cur lot is 
cast, but he gives us different sorts of work, according as he 
fits us for it and calls us to it. I can no more help spending 
my life in trying to do what I can for the souls of others, than 
you could help running if you heard little Totty crying at the 
other end of the house ; the voice would go to your heart, you 
would think the dear child was in trouble or in danger, and you 
could n’t rest without running to help her and comfort her.” 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, rising and walking towards the 
door, “I know it ’ud be just the same if I was to talk to you 
for hours. You ’d make me the same answer, at th’ end. I 
might as welL talk to the running brook, and tell it to stan* 
still.” 

The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now 
for Mrs. Poyser to stand there quite pleasantly and see what 


THE HALL FARM. 


81 


*ras going on in the yard, the gray worsted stocking making a 
steady progress in her hands all the while. But she had not 
been standing there more than five minutes before she came 
in again, and said to Dinah, in rather a flurried, awe-stricken 
tone — 

“ If there is n’t Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine a- 
coming into the yard ! I ’ll lay my life they ’re come to speak 
about your preaching on the Green, Dinah ; it ’s you must 
answer ’em, for I ’m dumb. I ’ve said enough a’ready about 
your bringing such disgrace upo’ your uncle’s family. I 
would n’t ha’ minded if you ’d been Mr. Poyser’s own niece — 
folks must put up wi’ their own kin, as they put up wi’ their 
own noses — it ’s their own flesh and blood. But to think of 
a niece o’ mine being cause o’ my husband’s being turned out of 
his farm, and me brought him no fortin but my savins — ” 

“Nay, dear aunt Rachel,” said Dinah gently, “you’ve no 
cause for such fears. I ’ve strong assurance that no evil will 
happen to you and my uncle and the children from anything 
I ’ve done. I did n’t preach without direction.” 

“ Direction ! I know very well what you mean by direc- 
tion,” said Mrs. Poyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated man- 
ner. “ When there ’s a bigger maggot than usial in your head 
you call it ‘ direction;’ and then nothing can stir you — 
you look like the statty o’ the outside o’ Treddles’on church, 
a-starin’ and a-smilin’ whether it ’s fair weather or foul. I 
hanna common patience with you.” 

By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings, 
and had got down from their horses : it was plain they meant 
to come in. Mrs. Poyser advanced to the door to meet them, 

, curtsying low, and trembling between anger with Dinah and 
anxiety to conduct herself with perfect propriety on the occa- 
sion. For in those days the keenest of bucolic minds felt a 
whispering awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of old men 
felt when they stood on tiptoe to watch the gods passing by 
in tall human shape. 

“Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are you after this stormy morn- 
ing ? ” said Mr. Irwine, with his stately cordiality. “ Our feet 
are quite dry ; we shall not soil your beautiful floor.” 


82 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Oh, sir, don’t mention it,” said Mrs. Poyser. “ Will you 
and the Captain please to walk into the parlor ? ” 

“No, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said the Captain, 
looking eagerly round the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking 
something it could not find. “ I delight in your kitchen. I 
think it is the most charming room I know. I should like 
every farmer’s wife to come and look at it for a pattern.” 

“ Oh, you ’re pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat,” said 
Mrs. Poyser, relieved a little by this compliment and the 'Cap- 
tain’s evident good-humor, but still glancing anxiously at 
Mr. Irwine, who, she saw, was looking at Dinah and advan- 
cing towards her. 

“ Poyser is not at home, is he ? ” said Captain Donnithorne, 
seating himself where he could see along the short passage to 
the open dairy-door. 

“No, sir, he is n’t ; he ’s gone to Bosseter to see Mr. West, 
the factor, about the wool. But there ’s father i’ the barn, sir, 
if he ’d be of any use.” 

“No, thank you; I’ll just look at the whelps and leave a 
message about them with your shepherd. I must come another 
day and see your husband ; I want to have a consultation with 
him about horses. Do you know when he ’s likely to be at 
liberty ? ” 

“ Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it ’s o’ Tred- 
dles’on market-day — that’s of a Friday, you know. For if 
he ’s anywhere on the farm we can send for him in a minute. 
If we ’d got rid o’ the Scantlands we should have no outlying 
fields ; and I should be glad of it, for if ever anything happens 
he J s sure to be gone to the Scantlands. Things allays happen 
so contrairy, if they ’ve a chance ; and it ’s an unnat’ral thing 
to have one bit o’ your farm in one county and all the rest in 
another.” 

“Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce’s 
farm, especially as he wants dairy -land and you ’ve got plenty. 
I think yours is the prettiest farm on the estate, though ; and 
do you know, Mrs. Poyser, if I were going to marry and settle, 
I should be tempted to turn you out, and do up this fine old 
house, and turn farmer myself.” 


THE HALL FARM. 


83 


"Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Poyser, rather alarmed, "you wouldn’t 
like it at all. As for farming, it ’s putting money into your 
pocket wi’ your right hand and fetching it out wi’ your left. As 
fur as I can see, it ’s raising victual for other folks, and just get- 
ting a mouthful for yourself and your children as you go along. 
Not as you ’d be like a poor man as wants to get his bread : you 
could afford to lose as much money as you liked i’ farming; 
but it ’s poor fun losing money, I should think, though I under- 
stan’ it ’s what the great folks i’ London play at more than any- 
thing. For my husband heard at market as Lord Dacey’s eldest 
son had lost thousands upo’ thousands to the Prince o’ Wales, 
and they say my lady was going to pawn her jewels to pay for 
him. But you know more about that than I do, sir. But, as 
for farming, sir, I canna think as you ’d like it ; and this house 
— the draughts in it are enough to cut you through, and it ’s 
my opinion the floors up-stairs are very rotten, and the rats i’ 
the cellar are beyond anything.” 

"Why, that’s a terrible picture, Mrs. Poyser. I think I 
should be doing you a service to turn you out of such a plac.3 
But there ’s no chance of that. I ’m not likely to settle for tl,© 
next twenty years, till I ’m a stout gentleman of forty ; ami 
my grandfather would never consent to part with such good 
tenants as you.” 

"Well, sir, if he thinks so well o’ Mr. Poyser for a tenant, 
I wish you could put in a word for him to allow us some new 
gates for the Five closes, for my husband ’s been asking and ask- 
ing till he ’s tired, and to think o ’what he ’s done for the farm, 
and ’s never had a penny allowed him, be the times bad or good. 
And as I ’ve said to my husband often and often, I ’m sure if 
the Captain had anything to do with it, it wouldn’t be so. 
Not as I wish to speak disrespectful o’ them as have got the 
power i’ their hands, but it ’s more than flesh and blood ’ull 
bear sometimes, to be toiling and striving, and up early and 
down late, and hardly sleeping a wink when you lie down for 
thinking as the cheese may swell, or the cows may slip their 
calf, or the wheat may grow green again i’ the sheaf — and 
after all, at th’ end o’ the year, it’s like as if you’d been 
cooking a feast and had got the smell of it for your pains.” 


84 


ADAM BEDE. 


Mrs. Poyser, once launched into conversation, always sailed 
along without any check from her preliminary awe of the gen- 
try. The confidence she felt in her own powers of exposition 
was a motive force that overcame all resistance. 

“I’m afraid I should only do harm instead of good, if I 
were to speak about the gates, Mrs. Poyser,” said the Captain, 
“ though I assure you there ’s no man on the estate I would 
soouer say a word for than your husband. I know his farm is 
in better order than any other within ten miles of us ; and as 
for the kitchen,” he added, smiling, “ I don’t believe there ’s 
one in the kingdom to beat it. By the bye, I ’ve never seen 
your dairy : I must see your dairy, Mrs. Poyser.” 

“ Indeed, sir, it ’s not fit for you to go in, for Hetty ’s in the 
middle o’ making the bufter, for the churning was thrown late, 
and I’m quite ashamed.” This Mrs. Poyser said blushing, 
and believing that the Captain was really interested in her 
milk-pans, and would adjust his opinion of her to the appear- 
ance of her dairy. 

“ Oh, I ’ve no doubt it ’s in capital order. Take me in,” said 
the Captain, himself leading the way, while Mrs. Poyser 
followed. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE DAIRY. 

The dairy was certainly worth looking at : it was a scene to 
sicken for with a sort of calenture in hot and dusty streets — 
such coolness, such purity, such fresh fragrance of new-pressed 
cheese, of firm butter, of wooden vessels perpetually bathed in 
pure water ; such soft coloring of red earthenware and creamy 
surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, gray limestone and rich 
orange-red rust on the iron weights and hooks and hinges. 
But one gets only a confused notion of these details when they 
surround a distractingly pretty girl of seventeen, standing on 
little pattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a pound 
of butter out of the scale.. 


THE DAIRY. 


85 


Hetty blushed a deep rose-color when Captain Donnithorne 
entered the dairy and spoke to her ; but it was not at all a dis- 
tressed blush, for it was in wreathed with smiles and dimples, 
and with sparkles from under long curled dark eyelashes ; ana 
while her aunt was discoursing to him about the limited 
amount of milk that was to be spared for butter and cheese 
so long as the calves were not all weaned, and a large quantity 
but inferior quality of milk yielded by the short-horn, which 
had been bought on experiment, together with other matters 
which must be interesting to a young gentleman who would 
one day be a landlord, Hetty tossed and patted her pound of 
butter with quite a self-possessed, coquettish air, slyly con- 
scious that no turn of her head was lost. 

There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make 
fools of themselves in various styles, from the desperate to 
the sheepish ; but there is one order of beauty which seems 
made to turn the heads not only of men, but of all intelligent 
mammals, even of women. It is a beauty like that of kittens, 
or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with 
their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to 
engage in conscious mischief — a beauty with which you can 
never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability 
to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you. 
Hetty Sorrel’s was that sort of beauty. Her aunt, Mrs. 
Poyser, who professed to despise all personal attractions, and 
intended to be the severest of mentors, continually gazed at 
Hetty’s charms by the sly, fascinated in spite of herself; 
and after administering such a scolding as naturally flowed 
from her anxiety to do well by her husband’s niece — who 
had no mother of her own to scold her, poor thing ! — she 
would often confess to her husband, when they were safe out 
of hearing, that she firmly believed, “ the naughtier the little 
hussy behaved, the prettier she looked.” 

It is of little use for me to tell you that Hetty’s cheek was 
like a rose-petal, that dimples played about her pouting lips, 
that her large dark eyes hid a soft roguishness under their 
long lashes, and that her curly hair, though all pushed back 
under her round cap while she was at work, stole back in 


86 


ADAM BEDE. 


dark delicate rings on her forehead, and about her white 
shell-like ears ; it is of little use for me to say how lovely was 
the contour of her pink-and- white neckerchief; tucked into her 
low plum-colored stuff bodice, or how the linen butter-making 
apron, with its bib, seemed a thing to be imitated in silk by 
duchesses, since it fell in such charming lines, or how her 
brown stockings and thick-soled buckled shoes lost all that 
clumsiness which they must certainly have had when empty 
of her foot and ankle ; — of little use, unless you have seen 
a woman who affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, 
tor otherwise, though you might conjure up the image of a 
lovely woman, she would not in the least resemble that dis- 
tracting kitten-like maiden. I might mention all the divine 
charms of a bright spring day, but if you had never in your 
life utterly forgotten yourself in straining your eyes after the 
mounting lark, or in wandering through the still lanes when 
the fresh-opened blossoms fill them with a sacred silent beauty 
like that of fretted aisles, where would be the use of my descrip- 
tive catalogue ? I could never make you know what I meant 
by a bright spring day. Hetty’s was a spring- tide beauty; 
it was the beauty of young frisking things, round-limbed, 
gamboling, circumventing you by a false air of innocence — 
the innocence of a young star-browed calf, for example, that, 
being inclined for a promenade out of bounds, leads you a 
severe steeple-chase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to 
a stand in the middle of a bog. 

And they are the prettiest attitudes and movements into 
which a pretty girl is thrown in making up butter — tossing 
movements that give a charming curve to the arm, and a 
sideward inclination of the round white neck; little patting 
and rolling movements with the palm of the band, and nice 
adaptations and finishings which cannot at all be effected 
without a great play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. 
And then the butter itself seems to communicate a fresh 
charm — it is so pure, so sweet-scented ; it is turned off the 
mould with such a beautiful firm surface, like marble in a 
pale yellow light! Moreover, Hetty was particularly clever 
at making up the butter; it was the one performance of hers 


THE DAIRY. 


87 

that her aunt allowed to pass without severe criticism; so 
she handled it with all the grace that belongs to mastery. 

“ I hope you will be ready for a great holiday on the 30th 
of July, Mrs. Poyser,” said Captain Donnithorne, when he 
had sufficiently admired the dairy, and given several im- 
provised opinions on Swede turnips and short-horns. “You 
know what is to happen then, and I shall expect you to be 
one of the guests who come earliest and leave latest. Will 
you promise me your hand for two dances, Miss Hetty ? If 
I don’t get your promise now, I know I shall hardly have a 
chance, for all the smart young farmers will take care to 
secure you.” 

Hetty smiled and blushed, but before she could answer, 
Mrs. Poyser interposed, scandalized at the mere suggestion 
that the young squire could be excluded by any meaner 
partners. 

“ Indeed, sir, you are very kind to take that notice of her. 
And I’m sure, whenever you’re pleased to dance with her, 
she’ll be proud and thankful, if she stood still all the rest 
o’ th’ evening. ” 

“ Oh no, no, that would be too cruel to all the other young 
fellows who can dance. But you will promise me two dances, 
won’t you ? ” the Captain continued, determined to make 
Hetty look at him and speak to him. 

Hetty dropped the prettiest little curtsy, and stole a half- 
shy, half-coquettish glance at him as she said — 

“Yes, thank you, sir.” 

“And you must bring all your children, you know, Mrs. 
Poyser ; your little Totty, as well as the boys. I want all 
the youngest children on the estate to be there — all those 
who will be fine young men and women when I ’m a bald old 
fellow.” 

“Oh dear, sir, that ’ull be a long time first,” said Mrs. 
Poyser, quite overcome at the young squire’s speaking so 
lightly of himself, and thinking how her husband would be 
interested in hearing her recount this remarkable specimen 
of high-born humor. The Captain was thought to be “ very 
full of his jokes,” and was a great favorite throughout the 


88 


ADAM BEDE. 


estate on account of his free manners. Every tenant was 
quite sure things would be different when the reins got into 
his hands — there was to be a millennial abundance of new 
gates, allowances of lime, and returns of ten per cent. 

“ But where is Totty to-day ? ” he said. “ I want to see her/* 

“ Where is the little un, Hetty ? ” said Mrs. Poyser “ She 
came in here not long ago.” 

“ I don’t know. She went into the brewhouse to Haney, 1 
think.” 

The proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show 
her Totty, passed at once into the back-kitchen in search of 
her, not, however, without misgivings lest something should 
have happened to render her person and attire unfit for 
presentation. 

“ And do you carry the butter to market when you ’ve made 
it ? ” said the Captain to Hetty, meanwhile. 

“ Oh no, sir ; not when it ’s so heavy : I ’m not strong enough 
to carry it. Alick takes it on horseback.” 

“No, I’m sure your pretty arms were never meant for such 
heavy weights. But you go out a walk sometimes these pleas- 
ant evenings, don’t you ? Why don’t you have a walk in the 
Chase sometimes, now it ’s so green and pleasant ? I hardly 
ever see you anywhere except at home and at church.” 

“Aunt doesn’t like me to go a-walking only when I’m 
going somewhere,” said Hetty. “ But I go through the Chase 
sometimes.” 

“ And don’t you ever go to see Mrs. Best, the housekeeper ? 
I think I saw you once in the housekeeper’s room.” 

“It is n’t Mrs. Best, it’s Mrs. Pomfret, the lady’s maid, as 1 
go to see. She ’s teaching me tent-stitch and the lace-mending. 
I ’m going to tea with her to-morrow afternoon.” 

The reason why there had been space for this tete-a-tete can 
only be known by looking into the back-kitchen, where Totty 
had been discovered rubbing a stray blue-bag against her nose, 
and in the same moment allowing some liberal indigo drops to 
fall on her afternoon pinafore. But now she appeared holding 
her mother’s hand — the end of her round nose rather shiny 
from a recent and hurried application of soap and water. 


THE DAIRy. 


89 


“ Here she is ! ” said the Captain, lifting her up and setting 
her on the low stone shelf. “ Here ’s Totty ! By the by, 
what ’s her other name ? She was n’t christened Totty.” 

“Oh, sir, we call her sadly out of her name. Charlotte’s 
her christened name. It ’s a name i’ Mr. Poyser’s family : his 
grandmother was named Charlotte. But we began with call 
ing her Lotty, and now it ’s got to Totty. To be sure it ’g 
more like a name for a dog than a Christian child.” 

“ Totty ’s a capital name. Why, she looks like a Totty. 
Has she got a pocket on ? ” said the Captain, feeling in his 
own waistcoat pockets. 

Totty immediately with great gravity lifted up her frock, and 
showed a tiny pink pocket at present in a state of collapse. 

“ It dot notin in it,” she said, as she looked down at it very 
earnestly. 

“No! what a pity! such a pretty pocket. Well, I think 
I ’ve got some things in mine that will make a pretty jingle in 
it. Yes ! I declare I ’ve got five little round silver things, and 
hear what a pretty noise they make in Totty’s pink pocket.” 
Here he shook the pocket with the five sixpences in it, and 
Totty showed her teeth and wrinkled her nose in great glee ; 
but, divining that there was nothing more to be got by staying, 
she jumped off the shelf and ran away to jingle her pocket in 
the hearing of Nancy, while her mother called after her, “ Oh 
for shame, you naughty gell! not to thank the Captain for 
what he ’s given you. I ’m sure, sir, it ’s very kind of you ; 
but she’s spoiled shameful; her father won’t have her said 
nay in anything, and there’s no managing her. It’s being the 
youngest, and th’ only gell.” 

“ Oh, she ’s a funny little fatty ; I would n’t have her differ- 
ent. But I must be going now, for I suppose the Hector is 
waiting for me.” 

With a “good-by,” a bright glance, and a bow to Hetty, 
Arthur left the dairy. But he was mistaken in imagining him- 
self waited for. The Hector had been so much interested in 
his conversation with Dinah, that he would not have chosen 
to close it earlier ; and you shall hear now what they had been 
saying to each other. 


90 


ADAM BEDE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A VOCATION. 

Dinah, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but 
still kept hold of the sheet she was mending, curtsied respect- 
fully when she saw Mr. Irwine looking at her and advancing 
towards her. He had never yet spoken to her, or stood face 
to face with her, and her first thought, as her eyes met his, 
was, “ What a well-favored countenance! Oh that the good 
seed might fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish.” The 
agreeable impression must have been mutual, for Mr. Irwine 
bowed to her with a benignant deference, which would have 
been equally in place if she had been the most dignified lady 
of his acquaintance. 

“You are only a visitor in this neighborhood, I think?” 
were his first words, as he seated himself opposite to her. 

“No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my 
aunt was very kind, wanting me to have rest from my work 
there, because I *d been ill, and she invited me to come and 
stay with her for a while.” 

‘ ‘ Ah, I remember Snowfield very well ; I once had occasion 
to go there. It *s a dreary bleak place. They, were building 
a cotton-mill there; but that ’s many years ago now: I sup- 
pose the place is a good deal changed by the employment that 
mill must have brought.” 

“It is changed so far as the mill has brought people there, 
who get a livelihood for themselves by working in it, and 
make it better for the tradesfolks. I work in it myself, and 
have reason to he grateful, for thereby I have enough and to 
spare. But it ? s still a bleak place, as you say, sir — very 
different from this country.” 

“You have relations living there, probably, so that you are 
attached to the place as your home ? ” 

“ I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was 
an orphan. But she was taken away seven years ago, and I 


A VOCATION. 


91 

have no other kindred that I know of, besides my aunt Poyser, 
who is very good to me, and would have me come and live in 
this country, which to be sure is a good land, wherein they eat 
bread without scarceness. But I ’m not free to leave Snow- 
field, where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, 
like the small grass on the hill-top.” 

“ Ah, I dare say you have many religious friends and com- 
panions there ; you are a Methodist — a Wesleyan, I think ? ” 
“ Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I 
have cause to be thankful for the privileges I have had there- 
by from my earliest childhood.” 

“ And have you been long in the habit of preaching ? — for 
I understand you preached at Hayslope last night.” 

“I first took to the work four years since, when I was 
twenty-one.” 

“ Your Society sanctions women’s preaching, then ? ” 

“ It does n’t forbid them, sir, when they ’ve a clear call to 
he work, and when their ministry is owned by the conversion 
of sinners, and the strengthening of God’s people. Mrs. 
Fletcher, as you may have heard about, was the first woman 
to preach in the Society, I believe, before she was married, 
when she wa§ Miss Bosanquet ; and Mr. Wesley approved of 
her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there 
are many others now living who are precious fellow-helpers in 
the work of the ministry. I understand there ’s been voices 
raised against it in the Society of late, but I cannot but think 
their counsel will come to nought. It is n’t for men to make 
channels for God’s Spirit, as they make channels for the 
water-courses, and say, ‘ Flow here, but flow not there.’ ” 

“ But don’t you find some danger among your people - — I 
don’t mean to say that it is so with you, far from it — but 
don’t you find sometimes that both men and women fancy 
themselves channels for God’s Spirit, and are quite mistaken, 
so that they set about a work for which they are unfit, and 
bring holy things into contempt ? * 

“ Doubtless it is so sometimes ; for there have been evil- 
doers among us who have sought to deceive the brethren, and 
some there are who deceive their own selves. But we are not 


92 


ADAM BEDE. 


without discipline and correction to put a check upon these 
things. There ’s a very strict order kept among us, and the 
brethren and sisters watch for each other’s souls as they that 
must give account. They don’t go every one his own way and 
say, ‘ Am I my brother’s keeper? ’ ” 

“ But tell me — if I may ask, and I am really interested in 
knowing it — how you first came to think of preaching ? ” 

“ Indeed, sir, I did n’t think of it at all — I ’d been used 
from the time I was sixteen to talk to the little children, and 
teach them, and sometimes I had had my heart enlarged to 
speak in class, and was much drawn out in prayer with the 
sick. But I had felt no call to preach ; for when I ’m not 
greatly wrought upon, I ’m too much given to sit still and 
keep by myself : it seems as if I could sit silent all day long 
with the thought of God overflowing my soul — as the pebbles 
lie bathed in the Willow Brook. For thoughts are so great — 
are n’t they, sir ? They seem to lie upon us like a deep flood ; 
and it ’s my besetment to forget where I am and everything 
about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could give no 
account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending 
of them in words. That was my way as long as I can remem- 
ber ; but sometimes it seemed as if speech came to me with- 
out any will of my own, and words were given to me that 
came out as the tears come, because our hearts are full and 
we can’t help it. And those were always times of great bless- 
ing, though I had never thought it could be so with me be- 
fore a congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, like 
the little children, by a way that we know not. I was called 
to preach quite suddenly, and since then I have never been 
left in doubt about the work that was laid upon me.” 

“But tell me the circumstances — just how it was, the very 
day you began to preach.” 

“ It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who 
was an aged man, one of the local preachers, all the way to 
Hetton-Deeps — that’s a village where the people get their 
living by working in the lead-mines, and where there ’s no 
church nor preacher, but they live like sheep without a shep- 
herd. It ’s better than twelve miles from Snowfield, so we 


A VOCATION. 


93 


set out early in the morning, for it was summer-time; and I 
had a wonderful sense of the .Divine love as we walked over 
the hills, where there ’s no trees, you know, sir, as there is 
here, to make the sky look smaller, hut you see the heavens 
stretched out like a tent, and you feel the everlasting arms 
around you. But before we got to Hetton, brother Marlowe 
was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, 
for he overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and 
praying, and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as 
well as carrying on his trade of linen-weaving. And when 
we got to the village, the people were expecting him, for he ’d 
appointed the time and the place when he was there before, 
and such of them as cared to hear the Word of Life were 
assembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as 
others might be drawn to come. But he felt as he could n’t 
stand up to preach, and he was forced to lie down in the first 
of the cottages we came to. So I went to tell the people, 
thinking we ’d go into one of the houses, and I would read 
and pray with them. But as I passed along by the cottages 
and saw the aged and trembling women at the doors, and the 
hard looks of the men, who seemed to have their eyes no 
more filled with the sight of the Sabbath morning than if 
they had been dumb oxen that never looked up to the sky, I 
felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled as if I was 
shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak body. And I 
went to where the little flock of people were gathered together, 
and stepped on the low wall that was built against the green hill- 
side, and I spoke the words that were given to me abundantly. 
And they all came round me out of all the cottages, and many 
wept over their sins, and have since been joined to the Lord. 
That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, and I ’ve preached 
ever since.” 

Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she 
uttered in her usual simple way, hut with that sincere, articu- 
late, thrilling treble, by which she always mastered her audi- 
ence. She stooped now to gather up her sewing, and then 
went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine was deeply interested. 
He said to himself, “He must be a miserable prig who would 


94 


ADAM BEDE. 


act the pedagogue here : one might as well go and lecture the 
trees for growing in their own shape.” 

“ And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of 
your youth — that you are a lovely young woman on whom 
men’s eyes are fixed ? ” he said aloud. ' 

“ No, I ’ve no room for such feelings, and don’t believe the 
people ever take notice about that. I think, sir, when God 
makes his presence felt through us, we are like the burning 
bush : Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was • — 
he only saw the brightness of the Lord. I ’ve preached to as 
rough ignorant people as can be in the villages about Snow- 
field — men that looked very hard and wild : but they never 
said an uncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as 
they made way for me to pass through the midst of them.” 

“ Thai I can believe — that I can well believe,” said 
Mr. Irwine, emphatically. “And what did you think of 
your hearers last night, now ? Did you find them quiet and 
attentive ? ” 

“ Very quiet, sir ; but I saw no signs of any great work upon 
them, except in a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards 
whom my heart yearned greatly, when my eyes first fell on 
her blooming youth, given up to folly and vanity. I had some 
private talk and prayer with her afterwards, and I trust her 
heart is touched. But I ’ve noticed, that in these villages 
where the people lead a quiet life among the green pastures 
and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending the cattle, 
there ’s a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can be 
from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit 
a holy woman who preaches there. It ’s wonderful how rich 
is the harvest of souls up those high-walled streets, where you 
seemed to walk as in a prison-yard, and the ear is deafened 
with the sounds of worldly toil. I think maybe it is because 
the promise is sweeter when this life is so dark and weary, 
and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at ease.” 

“ Why, yes, our farm-laborers are not easily roused. They 
take life almost as slowly as the sheep and cows. But we 
have some intelligent workmen about here. I dare say you 
know the Bedes ; Seth Bede, bye the bye, is a Methodist.” 


A VOCATION. 


95 


“Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. 
Seth is a gracious young man — sincere and without offence ; 
and Adam is like the patriarch Joseph, for his great skill and 
knowledge, and the kindness he shows to his brother an 1 his 
parents.” 

“Perhaps you don’t know the trouble that has just hap. 
pened to them ? Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned 
in the Willow Brook last night, not far from his own door. 
I ’m going now to see Adam.” 

“Ah, their poor aged mother!” said Dinah, dropping her 
hands, and looking before her with pitying eyes, as if she saw 
the object of her sympathy. “She will mourn heavily; for 
Seth has told me she ’s of an anxious, troubled heart. I must 
go and see if I can g ; tg her any help.” 

As she rose and w as beginning to fold up her work, Captain 
Donnithorne, having exhausted all plausible pretexts for re- 
maining among the milk-pans, came out of the dairy, followed 
by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwine now rose also, and, advancing 
towards Dinah, held out his hand, and said — 

“ Good-by. I hear you are going away soon ; but this will 
not be the last visit you will pay your aunt — so we shall meet 
again, I hope.” 

His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser’s anxieties 
at rest, and her face was brighter than usual, as she said — 

“ I ’ve never asked after Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, 
sir ; I hope they ’re as well as usual.” 

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has 
one of her bad headaches to-day. By the bye, we all liked that 
nice cream-cheese you sent us — my mother especially.” 

“ I ’m very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, 
but I remembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of ’em. Please to 
give my duty to her, and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. 
They ’ve never been to look at my poultry this long while, and 
I ’ve got some beautiful speckled chickens, black and white, as 
Miss Kate might like to have some of amongst hers.” 

“Well, I’ll tell her; she must come and see them. Goad* 
by,” said the Bector, mounting his horse. 

“ Tust ride slowly on, Irwine,” said Captain Donnithvcnov 


96 


ADAM BEDE. 


mounting also. “I’ll overtake you in three minutes. I’m 
only going to speak to the shepherd about the whelps. Good- 
by, Mrs. Poyser ; tell your husband I shall come and have a 
long talk with him soon.” 

Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until 
they had disappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement 
on the part of the pigs and the. poultry, and under the furious 
indignation of the bull-dog, who performed a Pyrrhic dance, 
that every moment seemed to threaten the breaking of his 
chain. Mrs. Poyser delighted in this noisy exit; it was a 
fresh assurance to her that the farmyard was well guarded, 
and that no loiterers could enter unobserved ; and it was not 
until the gate had closed behind the Captain that she turned 
into the kitchen again, where Dinah stood with her bonnet in 
her hand, waiting to speak to her aunt, before she set out 
for Lisbeth Bede’s cottage. 

Mrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, de- 
ferred remarking on it until she had disburdened herself of 
her surprise at Mr. Irwine’s behavior. 

“ Why, Mr. Irwine was n’t angry, then ? What did he 
say to you, Dinah ? Did n’t he scold you for preaching ? ” 

“ No, he was not at all angry ; he was very friendly to me. 
I was quite drawn out to speak to him ; I hardly know how, 
for I had always thought of him as a worldly Sadducee. But 
his countenance is as pleasant as the morning sunshine.” 

“Pleasant! and what else did y’ expect to find him but 
pleasant ? ” said Mrs. Poyser, impatiently, resuming her knit- 
ting. “I should think his countenance is pleasant indeed! 
and him a gentleman born, and ’s got a mother like a picter. 
You may go the country round, and not find such another 
woman turned sixty-six. It ’s summat-like to see such a man 
as that i’ the desk of a Sunday ! As I say to Poyser, it ’s like 
looking at a full crop o’ wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy 
o’ cows in it ; it makes you think the world ’s comfortable- 
like. But as for such creaturs as you Methodisses run after, 
I ’d as soon go to look at a lot o’ bare-ribbed runts on a com- 
mon. Fine folks they are to tell you what ’s right, as look as 
if they’d never tasted nothing better than bacon-sword and 


A VOCATION. 91 

sour-cake i’ their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you 
about that fool’s trick o’ preaching on the Green ? ” 

“ He only said he ’d heard of it ; he did n’t seem to feel any 
displeasure about it. But, dear aunt, don’t think any more 
about that. He told me something that I ’m sure will cause 
you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bede was drowned last night 
in the Willow Brook, and I ’m thinking that the aged mother 
will be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of use to 
her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out.” 

“ Dear heart, dear heart ! But you must have a cup o’ tea 
first, child,” said Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of 
B with five sharps to the frank and genial C. “ The kettle ’s 
boiling — we ’ll have it ready in a minute ; and the young uns 
’ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I ’m quite willing you 
should go and see th’ old woman, for you ’re one as is allays 
welcome in trouble, Methodist or no Methodist ; but, for the 
matter o’ that, it ’s the flesh and blood folks are made on as 
makes the difference. Some cheeses are made o’ skimmed 
milk and some o’ new milk, and it’s no matter what you 
call ’em, you may tell which is which by the look and the 
smell. But as to Thias Bede, he’s better out o’ the way nor 
in — God forgi’ me for saying so — for he ’s done little this 
ten year but make trouble for them as belonged to him ; and 
I think it ’ud be well for you to take a little bottle o’ rum for 
th’ old woman, for I dare say she ’s got never a drop o’ nothing 
to comfort her inside. Sit down, child, and be easy, for you 
shan’t stir out till you ’ve had a cup o’ tea, and so I tell you.” 

During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been 
reaching down the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her 
way towards the pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, 
who had made her appearance on the rattling of the teacups), 
when Hetty came out of the dairy relieving her tired arms 
by lifting them up, and clasping her hands at the back of her 
head. 

“ Molly,” she said, rather languidly, “ just run out and get 
me a bunch of dock-leaves : the butter ’s ready to pack up 
now.” 

“ D’ you hear what ’s happened, Hetty ? ” said her aunt. 

VOL. i. 


98 ADAM BEDE. 

“ No ; now should I hear anything ? ” was the answer, in a 
pettish tone. 

“ Not as you ’d care much, I dare say, if you did hear ; for 
you ’re too feather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so 
as you could stay up-stairs a-dressing yourself for two hours 
by the clock. But anybody besides yourself ’ud mind about 
such things happening to them as think a deal more of you 
than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin might be 
drownded for what you’d care — you’d be perking at the glass 
the next minute.” 

“ Adam Bede — drowned ? ” said Hetty, letting her arms 
fall, and looking rather bewildered, but suspecting that her 
aunt was as usual exaggerating with a didactic purpose. 

“ No, my dear, no,” said Dinah, kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had 
passed on to the pantry without deigning more precise in- 
formation. “Not Adam. Adam’s father, the old man, is 
drowned. He was drowned last night in the Willow Brook. 
Mr. Irwine has just told me about it.” 

“ Oh, how dreadful ! ” said Hetty, looking serious, but not 
deeply affected ; and as Molly now entered with the dock- 
leaves, she took them silently and returned to the dairy with- 
out asking further questions. 


CHAPTER IX. 

H E T T Y’S WORLD. 

While she adjusted the broad leaves that set off the pale 
fragrant butter as the primrose is set off by its nest of green, 
I am afraid Hetty was thinking a great deal more of the 
looks Captain Donnithorne had cast at her than of Adam and 
his troubles. Bright, admiring glances from a handsome young 
gentleman, with white hands, a gold chain, occasional regi- 
mentals, and wealth and grandeur immeasurable — those were 
the warm rays that set poor Hetty’s heart vibrating, and play- 
ing its little foolish tunes over and over again. We do not 


HETTY'S WORLD. 


99 


tear that Memnon’s statue gave forth its melody at all under 
the rushing of the mightiest wind, or in response to any other 
influence divine or human than certain short-lived sunbeams 
of morning ; and we must learn to accommodate ourselves to 
the discovery that some of those cunningly fashioned instru- 
ments called human souls have only a very limited range of 
music, and will not vibrate in the least under a touch that 
fills others with tremulous rapture or quivering agony. 

Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to 
look at her. She was not blind to the fact that young Luke 
Britton of Broxton came to Hayslope Church on a Sunday 
afternoon on purpose that he might see her; and that he 
would have made much more decided advances if her uncle 
Poyser, thinking but lightly of a young man whose father’s 
land was so foul as old Luke Britton’s, had not forbidden her 
aunt to encourage him by any civilities. She was aware, too, 
that Mr. Craig, the gardener at the Chase, was over head and 
ears in love with her, and had lately made unmistakable 
avowals in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas. She 
knew still better, that Adam Bede — tall, upright, clever, 
brave Adam Bede — who carried such authority with all the 
people round about, and whom her uncle was always delighted 
to see of an evening, saying that “Adam knew a fine sight 
more o’ the natur o’ things than those as thought themselves 
his betters” — she knew that this Adam, who was often rather 
stern to other people, and not much given to run after the 
lasses, could be made to turn pale or red any day by a word 
or a look from her. Hetty’s sphere of comparison was not 
large, but she could n’t help perceiving that Adam was “ some- 
thing like ” a man ; always knew what to say about things, 
icould tell her uncle how to prop the hovel, and had mended 
the churn in no time; knew, with only looking at it, the 
value of the chestnut-tree that was blown down, and why the 
damp came in the walls, and what they must do to stop 
the rats ; and wrote a beautiful hand that you could read off, 
and could do figures in his head — a degree of accomplishment 
totally unknown among the richest farmers of that country- 
side. Not at all like that slouching Luke Britton, who, whei* 


100 


ADAM BEDE. 


she once walked with him all the way from Broxton to Hay 
slope, had only broken silence to remark that the gray goose 
had begun to lay. And as for Mr. Craig, the gardener, he 
was a sensible man enough, to be sure, but he was knock- 
kneed, and had a queer sort of sing-song in his talk ; moreover, 
on the most charitable supposition, he must be far on the way 
to forty. 

Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage 
Adam, and would be pleased for her to marry him. For those 
were times when there was no rigid demarcation of rank be- 
tween the farmer and the respectable artisan, and on the 
home hearth, as well as in the public-house, they might be 
seen taking their jug of ale together; the farmer having a 
latent sense of capital, and of weight in parish affairs, which 
sustained him under his conspicuous inferiority in conversa- 
tion. Martin Poyser was not a frequenter of public-houses, 
but he liked a friendly chat over his own home-brewed ; and 
though it was pleasant to lay down the law to a stupid neigh- 
bor who had no notion how to make the best of his farm, it 
was also an agreeable variety to learn something from a clever 
fellow like Adam Bede. Accordingly, for the last three years 
— ever since he had superintended the building of the new 
barn — Adam had always been made welcome at the Hall 
Farm, especially of a winter evening, when the whole family, 
in patriarchal fashion, master and mistress, children and ser- 
vants, were assembled in that glorious kitchen, at well-gradu- 
ated distances from the blazing fire. And for the last two 
fears, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing her 
uncle say, “ Adam Bede may be working for wage now, but 
he ’ll be a master-man some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. 
Mester Burge is in the right on ’t to want him to go partners 
and marry his daughter, if it’s true what they say; the 
woman as marries him ’ull have a good take, be’t Lady Day 
or Michaelmas,” — a remark which Mrs. Poyser always fol- 
lowed up with her cordial assent. “Ah,” she would say, “it’s 
all very fine having a ready-made rich man, but may-happen 
he ’ll be a ready-made fool ; and it ’s no use filling your pocket 
full o’ money if you’ve got a hole in the corner. It’ll do 


HETTY’S WORLD. 


101 


you no good to sit in a spring-cart o’ your own, if you ? ve got 
a soft to drive you : he T1 soon turn you over into the ditch. 
I allays said I ’d never marry a man as had got no brains ; for 
where ’s the use of a woman having brains of her own if she ’s 
tackled to a geek as everybody ’s a-laughing at ? She might as 
well dress herself fine to sit back’ards on a donkey.” 

These expressions, though figurative, sufficiently indicated 
the bent of Mrs. Poyser’s mind with regard to Adam; and 
though she and her husband might have viewed the subject 
differently if Hetty had been a daughter of their own, it was 
clear that they would have welcomed the match with Adam 
for a penniless niece. For what could Hetty have been but 
a servant elsewhere, if her uncle had not taken her in and 
brought her up as a domestic help to her aunt, whose health 
since the birth of Totty had not been equal to more positive 
labor than tJie superintendence of servants and children? 
But Hetty had never given Adam any steady encouragement. 
Even in the moments when she was mdst thoroughly conscious 
of his superiority to her other admirers, she had never brought 
herself to think of accepting him. She liked to feel that this 
strong, skilful, keen-eyed man was in her power, and would 
have been indignant if he had shown the least sign of slipping 
from under the yoke of her coquettish tyranny, and attaching 
himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who would have been grate- 
ful enough for the most trifling notice from him. “Mary 
Burge, indeed ! such a sallow-faced girl : if she put on a bit 
of pink ribbon, she looked as yellow as a crow-flower, and her 
hair was as straight as a hank of cotton.” And always when 
Adam stayed away for several weeks from the Hall Farm, 
and otherwise made some show of resistance to his passion as 
a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him back into the net 
by little airs of meekness and timidity, as if she were in 
trouble at his neglect. But as to marking Adam, that was 
a very different affair ! There was nothing in the world to 
tempt her to do that. Her cheeks never grew a shade deeper 
when his name was mentioned ; she felt no thrill when she 
saw him passing along the causeway by the window, or ad- 
vancing towards her unexpectedly in. the footpath across the 


102 


ADAM BEDE. 


meadow; she felt nothing when his eyes rested on her, but 
the cold triumph of knowing that he loved her, and would not 
care to look at Mary Burge : he could no more stir in her the 
emotions that make the sweet intoxication of young love, than 
the mere picture of a sun can stir the spring sap in the subtle 
fibres of the plant. She saw him as he was — a poor man, 
with old parents to keep, who would not be able, for a long 
while to come, to give her even such luxuries as she shared in 
her uncle’s house. And Hetty’s dreams were all of luxuries : 
to sit in a carpeted parlor, and always wear white stockings : 
to have some large beautiful ear-rings, such as were all the 
fashion ; to have Nottingham lace round the top of her gown, 
and something to make her handkerchief smell nice, like Mis3 
Lydia Donnithorne’s when she drew it out at church; and 
not to be obliged to get up early or be scolded by anybody. 
She thought, if Adam had been rich and could have given her 
these things, she loved him well enough to marry him. 

But for the last few weeks a new influence had come over 
Hetty — vague, atmospheric, shaping itself into no self-con- 
fessed hopes or prospects, but producing a pleasant narcotic 
effect, making her tread the ground and go about her work in 
a sort of dream, unconscious of weight or effort, and showing 
her all things through a soft, liquid veil, as if she were living 
not in this solid world of brick and stone, but in a beatified 
world, such as the sun lights up for us in the waters. Hetty 
had become aware that Mr. Arthur Donnithorne would take a 
good deal of trouble for the chance of seeing her; that he 
always placed himself at church so as to have the fullest view 
of her both sitting and standing ; that he was constantly 
finding reasons for calling at the Hall Farm, and always would 
contrive to say something for the sake of making her speak to 
him and look at him. The poor child no more conceived at 
present the idea that the young squire could ever be her lover, 
than a baker’s pretty daughter in the crowd, whom a young 
emperor distinguishes by an imperial but admiring smile, 
conceives that she shall be made empress. But the baker’s 
daughter goes home and dreams of the handsome young 
emperor, and perhaps weighs the flour amiss while she is 


HETTY’S WORLD. 


103 


thinking what a heavenly lot it must he to have him for a 
husband: and so poor Hetty had got a face and a presence 
haunting her waking and sleeping dreams ; bright, soft glances 
had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, 
happy languor. The eyes that shed those glances were really 
not half so fine as Adam’s, which sometimes looked at her 
with a sad, beseeching tenderness; but they had found a 
ready medium in Hetty’s little silly imagination, whereas 
Adam’s could get no entrance through that atmosphere. For 
three weeks, at least, her inward life had consisted of little 
else than living through in memory the looks and words 
Arthur had directed towards her — of little else than recalling 
the sensations with which she heard his voice outside the 
house, and saw him enter, and became conscious that his eyes 
were fixed on her, . and then became conscious that a tall 
figure, looking down on her with eyes that seemed to touch 
her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture, with 
an odor like that of a flower-garden borne on the evening 
breeze. Foolish thoughts ! But all this happened, you must 
remember, nearly sixty years ago, and Hetty was quite un- 
educated — a simple farmer’s girl, to whom a gentleman with 
a white hand was dazzling as an Olympian god. Until to-day, 
she had never looked farther into the future than to the next 
time Captain Donnithorne would come to the Farm, or the 
next Sunday when she should see him at church ; but now 
she thought, perhaps he would try to meet her when she went 
to the Chase to-morrow — and if he should speak to her, and 
walk a little way, when nobody was by ! That had never 
happened yet ; and now her imagination, instead of retracing 
the past, was busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow 
» — whereabout in the Chase she should see him coming towards 
her, how she should put her new rose-colored ribbon on, which 
he had never seen, and what he would say to her to make her 
return his glance — a glance which she would be living 
through in her memory, over and over again, all the rest of 
the day. 

In this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to 
Adam's troubles, or think much about poor old Thias being 


104 ADAM BEDE. 

drowned? Young souls, in such pleasant delirium as hers, 
are as unsympathetic as butterflies sipping nectar ; they are 
isolated from all appeals by a barrier of dreams — by invisible 
looks and impalpable arms. 

While Hetty’s hands were busy packing up the butter, and 
her head filled with these pictures of the morrow, Arthur 
Donnithorne, riding by Mr. Irwine’s side towards the valley 
of the Willow Brook, had also certain indistinct anticipations, 
running as an under-current in his mind while he was listening 
to Mr. Irwine’s account of Dinah ; — indistinct, yet strong 
enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr. Irwine 
suddenly said — 

“ What fascinated you so in Mrs. Poyser’s dairy, Arthur ? 
Have you become an amateur of damp quarries and skimming- 
dishes ? ” 

Arthur knew the Bector too well to suppose that a clever 
invention would be of any use, so he said, with his accus- 
tomed frankness — 

“No, I went to look at the pretty butter-maker, Hetty 
Sorrel. She ’s a perfect Hebe ; and if I were an artist, I 
would paint her. It’s amazing what pretty girls one sees 
among the farmers’ daughters, when the men are such clowns. 
That common round red face one sees sometimes in the men 
— all cheek and no features, like Martin Poyser’s — comes 
out in the women of the family as the most charming phiz 
imaginable.” 

“ Well, I have no objection to your contemplating Hetty in 
an artistic light, but I must not have you feeding her vanity, 
and filling her little noddle with the notion that she ’s a great 
beauty, attractive to fine gentlemen, or you will spoil her for 
a poor man’s wife — honest Craig’s, for example, whom I 
have seen bestowing soft glances on her. The little puss 
seems already to have airs enough to make a husband as 
miserable as it ’s a law of nature for a quiet man to be when 
he marries a beauty. Apropos of marrying, I hope our friend 
Adam will get settled, now the poor old man ’s gone. He will 
only have his mother to keep in future, and I ’ve a notion 
that there’s a kindness between him and that nice modest 


HETTY’S WORLD. 


105 


girl, Mary Burge, from something that fell from old Jonathan 
one day when I was talking to him. But when I mentioned 
the subject to Adam he looked uneasy, and turned the conver- 
sation. I suppose the love-making does n’t run smooth, or 
perhaps Adam hangs back till he ’s in a better position. 
He has independence of spirit enough for two men — rather 
an excess of pride, if anything.” 

“ That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip 
into old Burge’b shoes, and make a fine thing of that building 
business, I ’ll answer for him. I should like to see him well 
settled in this parish ; he would be ready then to act as my 
grand-vizier when I wanted one. We could plan no end of 
repairs and improvements together* I ’ve never seen the girl, 
though, I think — at least I ’ve never looked at her.” 

“ Look at her next Sunday at church — she sits with her 
father on the left of the reading-desk. You needn’t look 
quite so much at Hetty Sorrel then. When I ’ve made up 
my mind that I can’t afford to buy a tempting dog, I take no 
notice of him, because if he took a strong fancy to me, and 
looked lovingly at me, the struggle between arithmetic and 
inclination might become unpleasantly severe. I pique my- 
self on my wisdom there, Arthur, and as an old fellow to 
whom wisdom has become cheap, I bestow it upon you.” 

Thank you. It may stand me in good stead some day, 
though I don’t know that I have any present use for it. Bless 
me ! how the brook has overflowed. Suppose we have a 
canter, now we’re at the bottom of the hill.” 

That is the great advantage of dialogue cn horseback ; it 
can be merged any minute into a trot or a canter, and one 
might have escaped from Socrates himself in the saddle. The 
two friends were free from the necessity of further con versa 
tion till they pulled up in the lane behind Adam’s cottage. 


106 


ADAM BEDE. 


CHAPTER X. 

DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 

At five o’clock Lisbeth came down-stairs with a large key 
in ber hand : it was the key of the chamber where her husband 
lay dead. Throughout the day, except in her occasional out- 
bursts of wailing grief, she had been in incessant movement, 
performing the initial duties to her dead with the awe and 
exactitude that belong to religious rites. She had brought 
out her little store of bleached linen, which she had for long 
years kept in reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but 
yesterday — that time so many midsummers ago, when she 
had told Thias where this linen lay, that he might be sure 
and reach it out for her when she died, for she was the elder 
of the two. Then there had been the work of cleansing to 
the strictest purity every object in the sacred chamber, and of 
removing from it every trace of common daily occupation. 
The small window which had hitherto freely let in the frosty 
moonlight or the warm summer sunrise on the working man’s 
slumber, must now be darkened with a fair white sheet, for this 
was the sleep which is as sacred under the bare rafters as in 
ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a long-neglected and 
unnoticeable rent in the checkered bit of bed-curtain ; for the 
moments were few and precious now in which she would be able 
to do the smallest office of respect or love for the still corpse, 
to which in all her thoughts she attributed some consciousness. 
Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them ; 
they can be injured by us, they can be wounded ; they know 
all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is 
empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their 
presence. And the aged peasant-woman most of all believes 
that her dead are conscious. Decent burial was what Lisbeth 
had been thinking of for herself through years of thrift, with 
an indistinct expectation that she should know when she was 
being carried to the churchyard, followed by her husband and 


JOIN AH V ISITS LiSBETH. 


107 


her sons ; and now she felt as if the greatest work of her life 
were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried decently be- 
fore her — under the white thorn, where once, in a dream, she 
had thought she lay in the coffin, yet all the while saw the 
sunshine above, and smelt the white blossoms that were so 
thick upon the thorn the Sunday she went to be churched 
after Adam was born. 

But now she had done everything that could be done to-day 
in the chamber of death — had done it all herself, with some 
aid from her sons in lifting, for she would let no one be 
fetched to help her from the village, not being fond of female 
neighbors generally ; and her favorite Dolly, the old house- 
keeper at Mr. Burge’s, who had come to condole with her in 
the morning as soon as she heard of Thias’s death, was too 
dim-sighted to be of much use. She had locked the door, and 
now held the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily 
into a chair that stood out of its place in the middle of the 
house floor, where in ordinary times she would never have con- 
sented to sit. The kitchen had had none of her attention that 
day ; it was soiled with the tread of muddy shoes, and untidy 
with clothes and other objects out of place. But what at 
another time would have been intolerable to Lisbeth’s habits 
of order and cleanliness, seemed to her now just what should 
be : it was right that things should look strange and disordered 
and wretched, now the old man had come to his end in that 
sad way : the kitchen ought not to look as if nothing had hap- 
pened. Adam, overcome with the agitations and exertions of 
the day after his night of hard work, had fallen asleep on a 
bench in the workshop ; and Seth was in the back-kitchen 
making a fire of sticks that he might get the kettle to boil, and 
persuade his mother to have a cup of tea, an indulgence which 
she rarely allowed herself. 

There was no one in the kitchen when Lisbeth entered and 
threw herself into the chair. She looked round with blank 
eyes at the dirt and confusion on which the bright afternoon’s 
Sun shone dismally ; it was all of a piece with the sad confu- 
sion of her mind — that confusion which belongs to the first 
hours of a sudden sorrow, when the poor human soul is like 


108 


ADAM BEDE. 


one who has been deposited sleeping among tne ruins of a vast 
city, and wakes up in dreary amazement, not knowing whether 
it is the growing or the dying day — not knowing why and 
whence 3ame this illimitable scene of desolation, or why he 
too finds himself desolate in the midst of it. 

At another time Lisbeth’s first thought would have been, 
u Where is Adam ? ” but the sudden death of her husband had 
restored him in these hours to that first place in her affections 
which he had held six-and-twenty years ago : she had forgotten 
his faults as we forget the sorrows of our departed childhood, 
and thought of nothing but the young husband’s kindness and 
the old man’s patience. Her eyes continued to wander blankly 
until Seth came in and began to remove some of the scattered 
things, and clear the small round deal table that he might set 
out his mother’s tea upon it. 

“ What art goin’ to do ? ” she said, rather peevishly. 

“ I want thee to have a cup of tea, mother,” answered 
Seth, tenderly. “ It ’ll do thee good ; and I ’ll put two or 
three of these things away, and make the house look more 
comfortable.” 

“ Comfortable ! How canst talk o’ ma’in’ things comfortable ? 
Let a-be, let a-be. There ’s no comfort for me no more,” she 
went on, the tears coming when she began to speak, “ now thy 
poor feyther ’s gone, as I ’n washed for and mended, an’ got ’s 
victual for him for thirty ’ear, an’ him allays so pleased wi’ 
iverything I done for him, an’ used to be so handy an’ do the 
jobs for me when I war ill an’ cumbered wi’ th’ babby, an’ 
made me the posset an’ brought it up-stairs as proud as could 
be, an’ carried the lad as war as heavy as two children for five 
mile an’ ne’er grumbled, all the way to Warson Wake, ’cause I 
wanted to go an’ see my sister, as war dead an’ gone the very* 
next Christmas as e’er come. An’ him to be drownded in the 
brook as we passed o’er the day we war married an > come home 
together, an’ he ’d made them lots o’ shelves for me to put my 
plates an’ things on, an’ showed ’em me as proud as could be, 
’cause he know’d I should be pleased. An’ he war to die an’ 
me not to know, but to be a-sleepin’ i’ my bed, as if I caredna 
nought about it. Eh! an’ me to live to see that! An" us as 


DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 


109 


war young folks once, an 7 thought we should do rarely when 
we war married. Let a-be, lad, let a-be ! I wonna ha’ no tay : 
I carena if I ne’er ate nor drink no more. When one end o’ 
th’ bridge tumbles down, where ’s th’ use o’ th’ other stannin’ ? 
I may ’s well die, an’ foller my old man. There ’s no knowin’ 
but he ’ll want me.” 

Here Lisbeth broke from words into moans, swaying herself 
backwards and forwards on her chair. Seth, always timid in 
his behavior towards his mother, from the sense that he had 
no influence over her, felt it was useless to attempt to per- 
suade or soothe her, till this passion was past ; so he contented 
himself with tending the back-kitchen fire, and folding up his 
father’s clothes, which had been hanging out to dry since 
morning; afraid to move about in the room where his mother 
was, lest he should irritate her further. 

But after Lisbeth had been rocking herself and moaning 
for some minutes, she suddenly paused, and said aloud to 
herself — 

“ I ’ll go an’ see arter Adam, for I canna think where he 'a 
gotten ; an’ I want him to go up-stairs wi’ me afore it ’s dark, for 
the minutes to look at the corpse is like the meltin’ snow.” 

Seth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as 
his mother rose from her chair, he said — 

“ Adam ’s asleep in the workshop, mother. Thee ’dst better 
not wake him. He was o’erwrought with work and trouble.” 

“Wake him? Who’s a-goin’ to wake him? I shanna wake 
him wi’ lookin’ at him. I hanna seen the lad this two hour — 
I’d welly forgot as he’d e’er growed up from a.babby when’s 
feyther carried him.” 

Adam was seated on a rough bench, his head supported by 
his arm, which rested from the shoulder to the elbow on the 
long planing-table in the middle of the workshop. It seemed 
as if he had sat down for a few minutes’ rest, and had fallen 
asleep without slipping from his first attitude of sad, fatigued 
thought. His face, unwashed since yesterday, looked pallid 
and clammy ; his hair was tossed shaggily about his forehead, 
and his closed eyes had the sunken look which follows upon 
watching and sorrow. His b^ow was knit, and his whole race 


110 


ADAM BEDE. 


had an expression of weariness and pain. Gyp was evidently 
uneasy, for he sat on his haunches, resting his nose on his 
master’s stretched-out leg, and dividing the time between lick- 
ing the hand that hung listlessly down, and glancing with a 
listening air towards the door. The poor dog was hungry 
and restless, but would not leave his master, and was waiting 
impatiently for some change in the scene. It was owing to this 
feeling on Gyp’s part, that when Lisbeth came into the work- 
shop, and advanced towards Adam as noiselessly as she could, 
her intention not to awake him was immediately defeated ; for 
Gyp’s excitement was too great to find vent in anything short 
of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam opened his eyes and 
saw his mother standing before him. It was not very unlike 
his dream, for his sleep had been little more than living through 
again, in a fevered delirious way, all that had happened since 
daybreak, and his mother with her fretful grief was present to 
him through it all. The chief difference between the reality 
and the vision was, that in his dream Hetty was continually 
coming before him in bodily presence — strangely mingling 
herself as an actor in scenes with which she had nothing to do. 
She was even by the Willow Brook; she made his mother 
angry by coming into the house; and he met her with her 
smart clothes quite ' wet through, as he walked in the rain to 
Treddleston, to tell the coroner. But wherever Hetty came, 
his mother was sure to follow soon ; and when he opened his 
eyes, it was not at all startling to see her standing near him. 

“Eh, my lad, my lad !” Lisbeth burst out immediately, her 
* wailing impulse returning, for grief in its freshness feels the 
need of associating its loss and its lament with every change 
of scene and incident, “ thee ’st got nobody now but thy old 
mother to torment thee and be a burden to thee : thy poor 
feyther ’ull ne’er anger thee no more ; an’ thy mother may ’s 
well go arter him — the sooner the better — for I ’m no good 
to nobody now. One old coat ’ull do to patch another, but it ’s 
good for nought else. Thee ’dst like to ha’ a wife to mend thy 
clothes an’ get thy victual, better nor thy old mother. An’ I 
shall be nought but cumber, a-sittin’ i’ th’ chimney-corner. 
(Adam winced and moved uneasily j he dreaded, of all things, 


DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 


Ill 


to hear his mother speak of Hetty.) But if thy feyther had 
lived, he ’d ne’er ha’ wanted me to go to make room for another, 
for he could no more ha’ done wi’out me nor one side o’ the 
scissars can do wi’out th’ other. Eh, we should ha’ been both 
flung away together, an’ then I shouldna ha’ seen this day, an f 
one buryin’ ’ud ha’ done for us both.” 

Here Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat in pained silence: h© 
could not speak otherwise than tenderly to his mother to-day 5 
but he could not help being irritated by this plaint. It was 
not possible for poor Lisbeth to know how it affected Adam, 
any more than it is possible for a wounded dog to know how 
his moans affect the nerves of his master. Like all complain- 
ing women, she complained in the expectation of being soothed, 
and when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to com- 
plain more bitterly. 

“ I know thee couldst do better wi’out me, for thee couldst 
go where thee likedst, an’ marry them as thee likedst. But 
I donna want to say thee nay, let thee bring home who thee 
wut ; I ’d ne’er open my lips to find faut, for when folks is old 
an’ o’ no use, they may think theirsens well off to get the bit 
an’ the sup, though they ’n to swallow ill words wi’t. An’ if 
thee ’st set thy heart on a lass as ’ll bring thee nought and 
waste all, when thee mightst ha’ them as ’ud make a man on 
thee, I ’ll say nought, now thy feyther ’s dead an’ drownded, for 
I ’m no better nor an old haft when the blade ’s gone.” 

Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the 
bench, and walked out of the workshop into the kitchen. But 
Lisbeth followed him. 

“ Thee wutna go up-stairs an’ see thy feyther then ? I ’n 
done everythin’ now, an’ he ’d like thee to go an’ look at him, 
for he war allays so pleased when thee wast mild to him.” 

Adam turned round at once and said, “ Yes, mother let us 
go up-stairs. Come, Seth, let us go together.” 

They went up-stairs, and for five minutes all was silence. 
Then the key was turned again, and there was a sound of foot- 
steps on the stairs. But Adam did not come down again ; he 
was too weary and worn-out to encounter more of his mother’s 
querulous grief, and he went to rest on his bed. Lisbeth no 


112 


ADAM BEDE. 


sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she threw her 
apron over her head, and began to cry and moan, and rock 
herself as before. Seth thought, “ She will be quieter by-and* 
by now we have been up-stairs ; ” and he went into the back- 
kitchen again, to tend his little fire, hoping that he should 
presently induce her to have some tea. 

Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than 
five minutes, giving a low moan with every forward movement 
of her body, when she suddenly felt a hand placed gently on 
hers, and a sweet treble voice said to her, “Dear sister, the 
Lord has sent me to see if I can be a comfort to you.” 

Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing 
her apron from her face. The voice was strange to her. 
Could it be her sister’s spirit come back to her from the dead 
after all those years ? She trembled, and dared not look. 

Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a 
relief for the sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but 
quietly took off her bonnet, and then, motioning silence to 
Seth, who, on hearing her voice, had come in with a beating 
heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth’s chair, and leaned 
over her, that she might be aware of a friendly presence. 

Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she 
opened her dim dark eyes. She saw nothing at first but a 
face — a pure, pale face, with loving gray eyes, and it was 
quite unknown to her. Her wonder increased ; perhaps it was 
an angel. But in the same instant Dinah had laid her hand 
on Lisbeth’s again, and the old woman looked down at it. It 
was a much smaller hand than her own, but it was not white 
and delicate, for Dinah had never worn a glove in her life, and 
her hand bore the traces of labor from her childhood upwards. 
Lisbeth looked earnestly at the hand for a moment, and then, 
fixing her eyes again on Dinah’s face, said, with something of 
restored courage, but in a tone of surprise — 

“ Why, ye ’re a workin’ woman ! ” 

“Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill 
when I am at home.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering ; “ ve coined in 
so light, like the shadow on the. wall, an’ spoke i’ my ear, as 


DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 113 

I thought ye might be a sperrit. Ye ’ve got a’most the face o' 
one as is a-sittin’ on the grave i’ Adam’s new Bible.” 

“ I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poyser 
— she ’s my aunt, and she has heard of your great affliction, 
and is very sorry ; and I ’m come to see if I can be any help 
to you in your trouble ; for I know your sons Adam and Seth, 
and I know you have no daughter ; and when the clergyman 
told me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, my heart 
went out towards you, and I felt a command to come and 
be to you in the place of a daughter in this grief, if you will 
let me.” 

“ Ah ! I know who y’ are now ; y’ are a Methody, like Seth ; 
he ’s tould me on you,” said Lisbeth, fretfully, her overpower- 
ing sense of pain returning, now her wonder was gone. “Ye ’ll 
make it out as trouble ’s a good thing, like he allays does. But 
where ’s the use o’ talkin’ to me a-that’n ? Ye canna make 
the smart less wi’ talkin’. Ye ’ll ne’er make me believe as it ’s 
better for me not to ha’ my old man die in ’s bed, if he must 
die, an’ ha’ the parson to pray by him, an’ me to sit by him, 
an’ tell him ne’er to mind th’ ill words I ’ve gi’en him some- 
times when I war angered, an’ to gi’ him a bit an’ a sup, as 
long as a bit an’ a sup he ’d swallow. But eh ! to die i’ the 
cold water, an’ us close to him, an’ ne’er to know; an’ me 
a-sleepin’, as if I ne’er belonged to him no more nor if he ’d 
been a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where ! ” 

Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again ; and 
Dinah said — 

“Yes, dear friend, your affliction is great. It would be 
hardness of heart to say that your trouble was not heavy to 
bear. God did n’t send me to you to make light of your sor- 
row, but to mourn with you, if you will let me. If you had 
a table spread for a feast, and was making merry with your 
friends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit 
down and rejoice with you, because you ’d think I should like 
to share those good things ; but I should like better to share 
in your trouble and your labor, and it would seem harder to 
me if you denied me that. You won’t send me away ? You’re 
not angry with me for coming ? ” 
von i 


ADAM BEDE. 


114 

“Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angereu i It wai 
good on you to come. An’, Seth, why donna ye get her some 
tay ? Ye war in a hurry to get some for me, as had no need, 
but ye donna think o’ gettin’ ’t for them as wants it. Sit ye 
down ; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for cornin’, for it ’s 
little wage ye get by walkin’ through the wet fields to see an 
old woman like me. . . . Nay, I.’n got no daughter o’ my own 
— ne’er had one — an’ I warna sorry, for they ’re poor queechy 
things, gells is ; I allays wanted to ha’ lads, as could fend for 
theirsens. An’ the lads ’ull be marryin’ — I shall ha’ daughters 
eno’, an’ too many. But now, do ye make the tay as ye like it, 
for I ’n got no taste i’ my mouth this day — it ’s all one what 
I swaller — it ’s all got the taste o’ sorrow wi’t.” 

Dinah took care not to betray that she had had her tea, and 
accepted Lisbeth’s invitation very readily, for the sake of per- 
suading the old woman herself to take the food and drink she 
so much needed after a day of hard work and fasting. 

Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he 
could not help thinking her presence was worth purchasing 
with a life in which grief incessantly followed upon grief; 
but the next moment he reproached himself — it was almost 
as if he were rejoicing in his father’s sad death. Nevertheless 
the joy of being with Dinah 'would triumph : it was like the 
influence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And 
the feeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract 
his mother’s notice, while she was drinking her tea. 

“ Thee may’st well talk o’ trouble bein’ a good thing, Seth, 
for thee thriv’st on’t. Thee look’st as if thee know’dst no 
more o’ care an’ cumber nor when thee wast a babby a-lyin’ 
awake i’ th cradle. Dor thee ’dst allays lie still wi’ thy eyes 
open, an’ Adam ne’er ’ud lie still a minute when he wakened. 
Thee wast allays like a bag o’ meal as can ne’er be bruised — 
though, for the matter o’ that, thy poor feyther war just such 
another. But ye’ve got the same look too” (here Lisbeth 
turned to Dinah). “I reckon it’s wi’ bein’ a Methody. Not 
as I’m a-findin’ faut wi’ ye for’t, for ye ’ve no call to be fret- 
tin’, an’ somehow ye looken sorry too. Eh ! well, if the Meth- 
©dies are fond o’ trouble, they ’re like to thrive : it ’s a pity 


DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 


115 


ciiey canna ha’t all, an’ take it away from them as donna like 
it. I could ha’ gi’en ’em plenty ; for when I ’d gotten my old 
man I war worreted from morn till night; ancl now he ’s gone, 
I ’d be glad for the worst o’er again.” 

“ Yes,” said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of Lis- 
beth’s, for her reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on 
a divine guidance, always issued in that finest woman’s tact 
which proceeds from acute and ready sympathy — “yes; I 
remember, too, when my dear aunt died, I longed for the 
sound of her bad cough in the nights, instead of the silence 
that came when she was gone. But now, dear friend, drink 
this other cup of tea and eat a little more.” 

“ What ! ” said Lisbeth, taking the cup, and speaking :n a 
less querulous tone, “ had ye got no feyther and mother, then, 
as ye war so sorry about your aunt ? ” 

“ISTo, I never knew a father or mother; my aunt brought 
me up from a baby. She had no children, for she was never 
married, and she brought me up as tenderly as if I ’d been her 
own child.” 

“ Eh, she ’d fine work wi’ ye, I ’ll warrant, bringin’ ye up 
from a babby, an’ her a lone woman — it ’s ill bringin’ up a 
cade lamb. But I dare say ye warna franzy, for ye look as if 
ye ’d ne’er been angered i’ your life. But what did ye do when 
your aunt died, an’ why didna ye come to live in this country, 
bein’ as Mrs. Poyser ’s your aunt too ? ” 

Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth’s attention was attracted, told 
her the story of her early life — how she had been brought up 
to work hard, and what sort of place Snowfield was, and how 
many people had a hard life there — all the details that she 
thought likely to interest Lisbeth. The old woman listened, 
and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously subject to the soothing 
influence of Dinah’s face and voice. After a while she was 
persuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for Dinah was 
bent on this, believing that the sense of order and quietude 
around her would help in disposing Lisbeth to join in the 
prayer she longed to pour forth at her side. Seth, meanwhile, 
went out to chop wood ; for he surmised that Dinah would lik& 
to be left alone with his mother. 


116 


ADAM BEDE. 


Lisbetli sat watching her as she moved about in her still 
quick way, and said at last, “ Ye ’ve got a notion o’ cleanin’ up. 
I wouldna mind ha’in ye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend 
the lad’s wage i’ fine clothes an’ waste. Ye ’re not like the 
lasses o’ this country-side. I reckon folks is different at Snow- 
field from what they are here.” 

“ They have a different sort of life, many of ’em,” said Dinah $ 
“ they work at different things — some in the mill, and many 
in the mines, in the villages round about. But the heart of 
man is the same everywhere, and there are the children of this 
world and the children of light there as well as elsewhere. But 
we ’ve many more Methodists there than in this country.” 

“Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, 
for there ’s Will Maskery’s wife, as they say ’s a big Methody, 
isna pleasant to look at, at all. I ’d as lief look at a tooad. 
An’ I ’m thinkin’ I wouldna mind if ye ’d stay an’ sleep here, 
for I should like to see ye i’ tli’ house i’ th’ mornin’. But may- 
happen they ’ll be lookin’ for ye at Mester Poyser’s.” 

“ No,” said Dinah, “ they don’t expect me, and I should like 
to stay, if you ’ll let me.” 

“ Well, there ’s room ; I ’n got my bed laid i’ th’ little room 
o’er the back-kitchen, an’ ye can lie beside me. I ’d be glad to 
ha’ ye wi’ me to speak to i’ th’ night, for ye ’ve got a nice way 
0’ talkin’. It puts me i’ mind o’ the swallows as was under 
the thack last ’ear, when they fust begun to sing low an’ soft- 
like i’ th’ mornin’. Eh, but my old man war fond o’ them 

birds ! an’ so war Adam, but they ’n ne’er corned again this 

’ear. Happen they ’re dead too.” 

a There,” said Dinah, “ now the kitchen looks tidy, and now, 
dear mother — for I’m your daughter to-night, you know — 
I should like you to wash your face and have a clean cap 
on. Do you remember what David did, when God took away 
his child from him ? While the child was yet alive he fasted 
and prayed to God to spare it, and he would neither eat nor 
drink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God for the 
child. But when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the 

ground and washed ana anointed himself, and changed his 

clothes, and ate and drank i and when they asked him how it 


DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 


117 


was that he seemed to have left off grieving now the child was 
dead, he said, ‘ While the child was yet alive, I fasted and 
wept ; for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious 
to me, that the child may live ? But now he is dead, where- 
fore should I fast ? can I bring him back again ? I shall go 
to him, but he shall not return to me.’ ” 

“Eh, that ’s a true word,” said Lisbeth. “Yea, my old man 
wonna come back to me, but I shall go to him — the sooner the 
better. Well, ye may do as ye like wi’ me : there ’s a clean cap 
i’ that drawer, an’ I ’ll go i’ the back-kitchen an’ wash my face. 
An’, Seth, thee may ’st reach down Adam’s new Bible wi’ th’ 
picters in, an’ she shall read us a chapter. Eh, I like them 
words — ( I shall go to him, but he wonna come back to me.’ ” 

Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the 
greater quietness of spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This 
was what Dinah had been trying to bring about, through all 
her still sympathy and absence from exhortation. From her 
girlhood upwards she had had experience among the sick and 
the mourning, among minds hardened and shrivelled through 
poverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest perception 
of the mode in which they could best be touched, and softened 
into willingness to receive words of spiritual consolation or 
warning. As Dinah expressed it, “ she was never left to her- 
self ; but it was always given her when to keep silence and 
when to speak.” And do we not all agree to call rapid 
thought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration ? 
After our subtlest analysis of the mental process, we must 
still say, as Dinah did, that our highest thoughts and our best 
deeds are all given to us. 

And so there was earnest prayer — there was faith, love, 
and hope pouring itself forth that evening in the little kitchen. 
And poor aged fretful Lisbeth, without grasping any distinct 
idea, without going through any course of religious emotions, 
felt a vague sense of goodness and love, and of something 
right lying underneath and beyond all this sorrowing life. 
She could n’t understand the sorrow ; but, for these moments, 
under the subduing influence of Dinah’s spirit, she felt that 
she must be patient and still. 


118 


ADAM BEDE. 


CHAPTER XL 

IN THE COTTAGE. 

It was but half-past four the next morning, when Dinah, 
tired of lying awake listening to the birds, and watching the 
growing light through the little window in the garret roof, 
rose and began to dress herself very quietly, lest she should 
disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else was astir in the 
house, and had gone down-stairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog’s 
pattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went 
down ; but Dinah was not aware of this, and she thought it 
was more likely to be Seth, for he had told her how Adam had 
stayed up working the night before. Seth, however, had only 
just awakened at the sound of the opening door. The ex- 
citing influence of the previous day, heightened at last by 
Dinah’s unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by 
any bodily weariness, for he had not done his ordinary 
amount of hard work ; and so when he went to bed, it was not 
till he had tired himself with hours of tossing wakefulness, 
that drowsiness came, and led on a heavier morning sleep than 
was usual with him. 

But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with 
his habitual impatience of mere passivity, he was eager to 
begin the new day, and subdue sadness by his strong will and 
strong arm. The white mist lay in the valley ; it was going 
to be a bright warm day, and he would start to work again 
when he had had his breakfast. 

“ There ’s nothing but what’s bearable as long as a man 
can work,” he said to himself : “ the natur o’ things does n’t 
change, though it seems as if one’s own life was nothing but 
change. The square o’ four is sixteen, and you must lengthen 
your lever in proportion to your weight, is as true when a 
man ’s miserable as when he ’s happy ; and the best o’ work- 
ing is, it gives you a grip hold things outside your own 
lot.” 


IN THE COTTAGE. 


119 


As lie dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt 
completely himself again, and with his black eyes as keen as 
ever, and his thick black hair all glistening with the fresh 
moisture, he went into the workshop to look out the wood for 
his father’s coffin, intending that he and Seth should carry it 
with them to Jonathan Burge’s, and have the coffin made by 
one of the workmen there, so that his mother might not see 
and hear the sad task going forward at home. 

He had just gone into the workshop, when his quick ear 
detected a light rapid foot on the stairs — certainly not his 
mother’s. He had been in bed and asleep when Dinah had 
come in, in the evening, and now he wondered whose step this 
could be. A foolish thought came, and moved him strangely. 
As if it could he Hetty ! She was the last person likely to he 
in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look, and 
have the clear proof that it was some one else. He stood 
leaning on a plank he had taken hold of, listening to sounds 
which his imagination interpreted for him so pleasantly, that 
the keen strong face became suffused with a timid tenderness. 
The light footstep moved about the kitchen, followed by the 
sound of the sweeping-brush, hardly making so much noise as 
the lightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves along the 
dusty path ; and Adam’s imagination saw a dimpled face, with 
dark bright eyes and roguish smiles, looking backward at this 
brush, and a rounded figure just leaning a little to clasp the 
handle. A very foolish thought — it could not be Hetty ; but 
the only way of dismissing such nonsense from his head was 
to go and see who it was, for his fancy only got nearer and 
nearer to belief while he stood there listening. He loosed the 
plank, and went to the kitchen door. 

“ How do you do, Adam Bede ? ” said Dinah, in her calm 
treble, pausing from her sweeping, and fixing her mild grave 
eyes upon him. “I trust you feel rested and strengthened 
again to bear the burthen and heat of the day ” 

It was like dreaming of the sunshine, and awaking in the 
moonlight. Adam had seen Dinah several times, but always 
at the Hall Farm, where he was not very vividly conscious of 
any woman’s presence except Hetty’s, and he had only in the 


120 


ADAM BEDE. 


last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was in lovs with 
her, so that his attention had not hitherto been drawn towards 
her for his brother’s sake. But now her slim figure, her plain 
black gown, and her pale serene face, impressed him with 
all the force that belongs to a reality contrasted with a pre- 
occupying fancy. For the first moment or two he made no 
answer, but looked at her with the concentrated, examining 
glance which a man gives to an object in which he has sud- 
denly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in her 
life, felt a painful self-consciousness ; there was something in 
the dark penetrating glance of this strong man so different 
from the mildness and timidity of his brother Seth. A faint 
blush came, which deepened as she wondered at it. This 
blush recalled Adam from his forgetfulness. 

“ I was quite taken by surprise ; it was very good of you to 
come and see my mother in her trouble,” he said, in a gentle 
grateful tone, for his quick mind told him at once how she 
came to be there. “ I hope my mother was thankful to have 
you,” he added, wondering rather anxiously what had been 
Dinah’s reception. 

“ Yes,” said Dinah, resuming her work, “ she seemed greatly 
comforted after a while, and she ? s had a good deal of rest in 
the night, by times. She was fast asleep when I left her.” 

“ Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm ? ” said 
Adam, his thoughts reverting to some one there ; he wondered 
whether she had felt anything about it. 

“ It was Mr. Irwin e, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt 
was grieved for your mother when she heard it, and wanted 
me to come ; and so is my uncle, I ’m sure, now he ’s heard 
it, but he was gone out to Bosseter all yesterday. They’ll 
look for you there as soon as you’ve got time to go, for there ’s 
nobody round that nearth but what ’s glad to see you.” 

Dinah, with her sympathetic divination, knew quite well 
that Adam was longing to hear if Hetty had said anything 
about their trouble ; she was too rigorously truthful for 
benevolent invention, but she had contrived to say something 
in which Hetty was tacitly included. Dove has a way of 
cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary 



Seth Bede's House, near Wirksworth. 






IN THE COTTAGE. 


121 


hide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the 
while disbelieves. Adam liked what Dinah had said so much 
that his mind was directly full of the next visit he should pay 
to the Hall Farm, when Hetty would perhaps behave more 
kindly to him than she had ever done before. 

“ But you won’t be there yourself any longer ? ~ he said tc 
Dinah. 

“ No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have 
to set out to Treddleston early, to be in time for the Oak- 
bourne carrier. So I must go back to the farm to-night, that 
I may have the last day with my aunt and her children. But 1 
can stay here all to-day, if your mother would like me ; and 
her heart seemed inclined towards me last night.” 

“ Ah, then, she ’s sure to want you to-day. If mother takes 
to people at the beginning, she -s sure to get fond of ’em ; 
but she ’s a strange way of not liking young women. Though, 
to be sure,” Adam went on, smiling, “her not liking other 
young women is no reason why she should n’t like you.” 

Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in mo- 
tionless silence, seated on his haunches, and alternately 
looking up in his master’s face to watch its expression, 
and observing Dinah’s movements about the kitchen. The 
kind smile with which Adam uttered the last words was ap- 
parently decisive with Gyp of the light in which the stranger 
was to be regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside 
her sweeping-brush, he trotted towards her, and put up his 
muzzle against her hand in a friendly way. 

“You see Gyp bids you welcome,” said Adam, “and he’s 
very slow to welcome strangers.” 

“ Poor dog ! ” said Dinah, patting the rough gray coat, “ I ’ve 
a strange feeling about the dumb things as if they wanted to 
speak, and it was a trouble to ’em because they could n’t. I 
can’t help being sorry for the dogs always, though perhaps 
there ’s no need. But they may well have more in them than 
they know how to make us understand, for we can’t say half 
what we feel, with all our words.” 

Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking 
with Dinah ; he wanted Adam to know how much better she 


122 


ADAM BEDE. 


was than all other women. But after a few words of greeting, 
Adam, drew him into the workshop to consult about the coffin, 
and Dinah went on with her cleaning. 

By six o’clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a 
kitchen as clean as she could have made it herself. The window 
and door were open, and the morning air brought with it a 
mingled scent of southernwood, thyme, and sweetbrier from the 
patch of garden by the side of the cottage. Dinah did not sit 
down at first, but moved about, serving the others with the warm 
porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she had got ready in 
the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just what his 
mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually si- 
lent since she came down-stairs, apparently requiring some time 
to adjust her ideas to a state of things in which she came down 
like a lady to find all the work done, and sat still to be waited 
on. Her new sensations seemed to exclude the remembrance of 
her grief. At last, after tasting the porridge, she broke silence — 

“ Ye might ha’ made the parridge worse,” she said to Dinah; 
“I can ate it wi’out its turnin’ my stomach. It might ha’ 
been a trifle thicker an’ no harm, an’ I allays putten a sprig o’ 
mint in mysen ; but how ’s ye t’ know that ? The lads arena 
like to get folks as ’ll make their parridge as I ’n made it for 
’em; it’s well if they get onybody as ’ll make parridge at all. 
But ye might do, wi’ a bit o’ showin’ ; for ye ’re a stirrin’ body 
in a mornin’, an’ ye ’ve a light heel, an’ ye ’ve cleaned th’ house 
well enough for a ma’-shift.” 

“Make-shift, mother?” said Adam. “Why, I think the 
house looks beautiful. I don’t know how it could look 
better.” 

“Thee dostna know? — nay; how’s thee to know? Th’ 
men ne’er know whether the floor ’s cleaned or cat-licked. But 
thee ’It know when thee gets thy parridge burnt, as it ’s like 
enough to be when I ’m gi’en o’er makin’ it. Thee ’It think 
thy mother war good for summat then.” 

“ Dinah,” said Seth, “do come and sit down now and have 
your breakfast. We’re all served now.” 

“ Ay, come an’ sit ye down — do,” said Lisbeth, “an’ ate a 
morsel ; ye ’d need, arter bein’ upo’ your legs this hour an’ half 


IN THE COTTAGE. 


123 


already. Come, then,” she added, in a tone of complaining 
affection, as Dinah sat down by her side, “ I ’ll be loath for ye 
t’ go, but ye canna stay much longer, I doubt. I could put up 
wi’ ye i’ th’ house better nor wi’ most folks.” 

“ I ’ll stay till to-night if you ’re willing,” said Dinah. “ I ’d 
stay longer, only I ’m going back to Snowfield on Saturday, 
and I must be with my aunt to-morrow.” 

“ Eh, I ’d ne’er go back to that country. My old man come 
from that Stony shire side, but he left it when he war a young 
un, an’ i’ the right on ’t too ; for he said as there war no wood 
there, an’ it ’ud ha’ been a bad country for a carpenter.” 

“ Ah,” said Adam, “ I remember father telling me when I 
was a little lad, that he made up his mind if ever he moved it 
should be south’ard. But I ’m not so sure about it. Bartle Mas- 
sey says — and he knows the South — as the northern men are 
a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed and stronger- 
bodied, and a deal taller. And then he says, in some o’ those 
countries it ’s as flat as the back o’ your hand, and you can see 
nothing of a distance, without climbing up the highest trees. 
I could n’t abide that : I like to go to work by a road that ’ll 
take me up a bit of a hill, and see the fields for miles round me, 
and a bridge, or a town, or a bit of a steeple here and there. It 
makes you feel the world ’s a big place, an’ there ’s other men 
working in it with their heads and hands besides yourself.” 

“I like th’ hills best,” said Seth, “when the clouds are over 
your head, and you see the sun shining ever so far off, over the 
Loamford way, as I ’ve often done o’ late, on the stormy days : 
it seems to me as if that was heaven where there ’s always joy 
and sunshine, though this life ’s dark and cloudy.” 

“ Oh, I love the Stonyshire side,” said Dinah ; “ I should n’t 
like to set my face towards the countries where they ’re rich in 
corn and cattle, and the ground so level and easy to tread j 
and to turn my back on the hills where the poor people have 
to live such a hard life, and the men spend their days in the 
mines away from the sunlight. It ’s very blessed on a bleak 
cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feel 
the love of God in one’s soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, 
stone houses, where there ’s nothing else to give comfort.” 


124 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Eh ! ” said Lisbeth, “ that ’s very well for ye to talk, as 
looks welly like the snowdrop-flowers as ha’ lived for days 
an’ days when I ’n gethered ’em, wi’ nothin’ but a drop o’ water 
an’ a peep o’ daylight ; but th’ hungry foulks had better leave 
th’ hungry country. It makes less mouths for the scant cake. 
But,” she went on, looking at Adam, “ donna thee talk o’ goin’ 
south’ard or north’ard, an’ leavin’ thy feyther and mother i’ 
the churchyard, an’ goin’ to a country as they know nothin’ 
on. I ’ll ne’er rest i’ my grave if I donna see thee i’ the 
churchyard of a Sunday.” 

“ Donna fear, mother,” said Adam. “ If I hadna made up 
my mind not to go, I should ha’ been gone before now.” 

He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was 
speaking. 

“What art goin’ to do?” asked Lisbeth. “Set about thy 
feyther’s coffin ? ” 

“No, mother,” said Adam; “we’re going to take the wood 
to the village, and have it made there.” 

“Nay, my lad, nay,” Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing 
tone ; “ thee wotna let nobody make thy feyther’s coffin but 
thysen ? Who ’d make it so well ? An’ him as know’d what 
good work war, an ’s got a son as is the head o’ the village, an’ 
all Treddles’on too, for cleverness.” 

“Very well, mother, if that’s thy wish, I’ll make the coffin 
at home ; but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work 
going on.” 

“ An’ why shouldna I like ’t ? It ’s the right thing to be done. 
An’ what ’s liking got to do wi’t ? It ’s choice o’ mislikings is 
all I ’n got i’ this world. One morsel ’s as good as another when 
your mouth ’s out o’ taste. Thee mun set about it now this morn- 
in’ fust thing. I wonna ha’ nobody to touch the coffin but thee.” 

Adam’s eyes met Seth’s, which looked from Dinah to him 
rather wistfully. 

“No, mother,” he said, “I ’ll not consent but Seth shall have 
a hand in it too, if it ’s to be done at home. I ’ll go to the vil- 
lage this forenoon, because Mr. Burge ’ull want to see me, and 
Seth shall stay at home and begin the coffin. I can come back 
at noon, and then he can go.”_ 


IN THE COTTAGE. 


125 


“ In ay, nay,” persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, “ I ’n set 
my heart on ’t as thee shalt ma’ thy feyther’s coffin. Thee ’t 
so stiff an’ masterful, thee ’t ne’er do as thy mother wants 
thee. Thee wast often angered wi’ thy feyther when he war 
alive ; thee must be the better to him now he ’s gone. He ’d 
ha’ thought nothin’ on ’t for Seth to ma’s coffin.” 

“Say no more, Adam, say no more,” said Seth, gently,^ 
though his voice told that he spoke with some effort;' 
“ mother ’s in the right. I ’ll go to work, and do thee stay 
at home.” 

He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by 
Adam ; while Lisbeth, automatically obeying her old habits, 
began to put away the breakfast things, as if she did not mean 
Dinah to take her place any longer. Dinah said nothing, but 
presently used the opportunity of quietly joining the brothers 
in the workshop. 

They had already got on their aprons and paper-caps, and 
Adam was standing with his left hand on Seth’s shoulder, 
while he pointed with the hammer in his right to some boards 
which they were looking at. Their backs were turned towards, 
the door by which Dinah entered, and she came in so gently 
that they were not aware of her presence till they heard her 
voice saying, “ Seth Bede ! ” Seth started, and they both turned 
round. Dinah looked as if she did not see Adam, and fixed 
her eyes on Seth’s face, saying with calm kindness — 

“I won’t say farewell. I shall see you again when you 
come from work. So as I ’m at the farm before dark, it will 
be quite soon enough.” 

“Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you 
once more. It ’ll perhaps be the last time.” 

There was a little tremor in Seth’s voice. Dinah put out her 
hand and said, “You’ll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, 
Seth, for your tenderness and long-suffering towards your aged 
mother.” 

She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and 
quietly as she had entered it. Adam had been observing her 
closely all the while, but she had not looked at him. As soon 
as she was gone, he said — 


126 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ I don’t wonder at tliee for loving her, Seth. She ’s got a 
face like a lily.” 

Seth’s soul rushed to his eyes and lips : he had never yet 
confessed his secret to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense 
of disburthenment, as he answered — 

“Ay, Addy, I do love her — too much, I doubt. But she 
doesna love me, lad, only as one' child o’ God loves another. 
She ’ll never love any man as a husband — that ’s my belief.” 

“Nay, lad, there’s no telling; thee mustna lose heart. 
She ’s made out o’ stuff with a finer grain than most o’ the 
women ; I can see that clear enough. But if she ’s better than 
they are in other things, I canna think she ’ll fall short of ’em 
in loving.” 

No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam 
began his work on the coffin. 

“ God help the lad, and me too,” he thought, as he lifted 
the board. “We’re like enough to find life a tough job 
— hard work inside and out. It ’s a strange thing to think of 
a man as can lift a chair with his teeth, and walk fifty mile on 
end, trembling and turning hot and cold at only a look from 
one woman out of all the rest i’ the world. It ’s a mystery we 
can give no account of ; but no more we can of the sprouting 
o’ the seed, for that matter.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

IN THE WOOD. 

That same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donnithorne was 
moving about in his dressing-room seeing his well-looking Brit- 
ish person reflected in the old-fashioned mirrors, and stared 
at, from a dingy olive-green piece of tapestry, by Pharaoh’s 
daughter and her maidens, who ought to have been minding 
the infant Moses, he was holding a discussion with himself, 
which, by the time his valet was tying the black silk sling over 
his shoulder, had issued in a distinct practical resolution. 


IN THE WOOD. 


127 


u I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so,” he 
said aloud. “ I shall take you with me, Pym, and set off this 
morning ; so be ready by half-past eleven.” 

The low whistle, which had assisted him in arriving at this 
resolution, here broke out into his loudest ringing tenor, and 
the corridor, as he hurried along it, echoed to his favorite 
song from the “ Beggar’s Opera,” “When the heart of a man 
is oppressed with care.” Not an heroic strain ; nevertheless 
Arthur felt himself very heroic as he strode towards the sta- 
bles to give his orders about the horses. His own approbation 
was necessary to him, and it was not an approbation to be 
enjoyed quite gratuitously ; it must be won by a fair amount 
of merit. He had never yet forfeited that approbation, and 
he had considerable reliance on his own virtues. No young 
man could confess his faults more candidly ; candor was one 
of his favorite virtues ; and how can a man’s candor be seen 
in all its lustre unless he I as a few failings to talk of ? But 
he had an agreeable confidence that his faults were all of 
u, generous kind — impetuous, warm-blooded, leonine ; never 
crawling, crafty, reptilian. It was not possible for Arthur 
Donnithorne to do anything mean, dastardly, or cruel. “No ! 
I ’m a devil of a fellow for getting myself into a hobble, but 
I always take care the load shall fall on my own shoulders.” 
Unhappily there is no inherent poetical justice in hobbles, and 
they will sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict their worst 
consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudly 
expressed wish. It was entirely owing to this deficiency in 
the scheme of things that Arthur had ever brought any one 
into trouble besides himself. He was nothing, if not good 
natured; and all his pictures of the future, when he should 
come into the estate, were made up of a prosperous, contented 
tenantry, adoring their landlord, who would be the model of 
sn English gentleman — ■ mansion in first-rate order, all ele- 
gance and high taste — - jolly house-keeping, finest stud in 
Loam shire — purse open to all public objects — in short, every- 
tiling as different as possible from what was now associated 
with the name of Donnithorne. And one of the first good 
actions he would perform in that future should be to increase 


128 


ADAM BEDE. 


Irwine’s income for the vicarage of Hayslope, so that he might 
keep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty affec- 
tion for the Rector dated from the age of frocks and trousers. 
It was an affection partly filial, partly fraternal ; — fraternal 
enough to make him like Irwine’s company better than that 
of most younger men, and filial enough to make him shrink 
strongly from incurring Irwine’s. disapprobation. 

You perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was “ a good fellow ” 
— all his college friends thought him such : he could n’t bear 
to see any one uncomfortable; he would have been sorry even 
in his angriest moods for any harm to happen to his grand- 
father; and his aunt Lydia herself had the benefit of that soft- 
heartedness which he bore towards the whole sex. Whether 
he would have self-mastery enough to be always as harmless 
and purely beneficent as his good-nature led him to desire, 
was a question that no one had yet decided against him: he 
was but twenty-one, you remember; and we don’t inquire too 
closely into character in the case of a handsome generous 
young fellow, who will have property enough to support nu- 
merous peccadilloes — who, if he should unfortunately break a 
man’s legs in his rash driving, will he able to pension him 
handsomely ; or if he should happen to spoil a woman’s exist- 
ence for her, will make it up to her with expensive bon-bons , 
packed up and directed by his own hand. It would be ridicu- 
lous to be prying and analytic in such cases, as if one were 
inquiring into the character of a confidential clerk. We use 
round, general, gentlemanly epithets about a young man of 
birth and fortune; and ladies, with that fine intuition which 
is the distinguishing attribute of their sex, see at once that he 
is “ nice.” The chances are that he will go through life with- 
out scandalizing any one; a seaworthy vessel that no one 
would refuse to insure. Ships, certainly, are liable to casual- 
ties, which sometimes make terribly evident some flaw in their 
construction, that would never have been discoverable in 
smooth water; and many a “ good fellow,” through a disastrous 
combination of circumstances, has undergone a like betrayal. 

But we have no fair ground for entertaining unfavorable 
auguries concerning Arthur Donnithorne, who this morning 


IN THE WOOD. 


129 


proves himself capable of a prudent resolution founded on con- 
science. One thing is clear : Nature has taken care that he 
shall never go far astray with perfect comfort and satisfaction 
to himself ; he will never get beyond that border-land of sin, 
where he will be perpetually harassed by assaults from the 
other side of the boundary. He will never be a courtier of 
Vice, and wear her orders in his button-hole. 

It was about ten o’clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly j 
everything was looking lovelier for the yesterday’s rain. It 
is a pleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well- 
rolled gravel on one’s way to the stables, meditating an excur- 
sion. But the scent of the stables, which, in a natural state 
of things, ought to be among the soothing influences of a man’s 
life, always brought with it some irritation to Arthur. There 
was no having his own way in the stables; everything was 
managed in the stingiest fashion. His grandfather persisted 
in retaining as head groom an old dolt whom no sort of lever 
could move out of his old habits, and who was allowed to hire 
a succession of raw Loamshire lads as his subordinates, one of 
whom had lately tested a new pair of shears by clipping an 
oblong patch on Arthur’s bay mare. This state of things is 
naturally embittering ; one can put up with annoyances in the 
house, but to have the stable made a scene of vexation and 
disgust, is a point beyond what human flesh and blood can be ex- 
pected to endure long together without danger of misanthropy. 

Old John’s wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object 
that met Arthur’s eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it 
quite poisoned for him the bark of the two blood-hounds that 
kept watch there. He could never speak quite patiently tc 
the old blockhead. 

“ You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the 
door at half-past eleven, and I shall want Rattler saddled for 
Pym at the same time. Do you hear ? ” 

“Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap’n,” said old John, very deliber- 
ately, following the young master into the stable. John con- 
sidered a young master as the natural enemy of an old servant 
and young people in general as a poor contrivance for carrying 
on the world. 


VOL. I. 


180 


ADAM BEDE. 


Arthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as fai 
as possible to see anything in the stables, lest he should lose 
his temper before breakfast. The pretty creature was in one 
of the inner stables, and turned her mild head as her master 
came beside her. Little Trot, a tiny spaniel, her inseparable 
companion in the stable, was comfortably curled up on her 
back. 

“ Well, Meg, my pretty girl,” said Arthur, patting her neck. 
* we ’ll have a glorious canter this morning.” 

“Nay, your honor, I donna see as that can be,” said John. 

“Not be ? Why not ? ” 

“ Why, she ’s got lamed.” 

“ Lamed, confound you ! what do you mean ? ” 

“ Why, th’ lad took her too close to Dalton’s hosses, an’ one 
on ’em flung out at her, an’ she ’s got her shank bruised o’ the 
near fore-leg.” 

The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely 
what ensued. You understand that there was a great deal of 
strong language, mingled with soothing “ who-ho’s ” while the 
leg was examined ; that John stood by with quite as much 
emotion as if he had been a cunningly carved crab-tree walking- 
stick, and that Arthur Donnithorne presently repassed the iron 
gates of the pleasure-ground without singing as he went. 

He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. 
There was not another mount in the stable for himself and his 
servant besides Meg and Battler. It was vexatious ; just when 
he wanted to get out of the way for a week or two. It seemed 
culpable in Providence to allow such a combination of circum- 
stances. To be shut up at the Chase with a broken arm, when 
every other fellow in his regiment was enjoying himself at 
Windsor — shut up with his grandfather, who had the same 
sort of affection for him as for his parchment deeds ! And to 
be disgusted at every turn with the management of the house 
and the estate ! In such circumstances a man necessarily gets 
in an ill humor, and works off the irritation by some excess or 
other. “ Salkeld would have drunk a bottle of port every day,” 
he muttered to himself; “but I’m not well seasoned enough 
for that. Well, since I can’t go to Eagledale, I ’ll have a 


IN THE WOOD. 131 

gallop on Battler to Norburne this morning, and lunch with 
Gawaine.” 

Behind this explicit resolution there lay an implicit one. 
If he lunched with Gawaine and lingered ehatting, he should 
not reach the Chase again till nearly five, when Hetty would 
be safe out of his sight in the housekeeper’s room ; and when 
she set out to go home, it would be his lazy time after dinner, 
so he should keep out of her way altogether. There really 
would have been no harm in being kind to the little thing, and 
it was worth dancing with a dozen ball-room belles only to 
look at Hetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had better 
not take any more notice of her; it might put notions into 
her head, as Irwine had hinted ; though Arthur, for his part, 
thought girls were not by any means so soft and easily bruised ; 
indeed, he had generally found them twice as cool and cunning 
as he was himself. As for any real harm in Hetty’s case, it 
was out of the question : Arthur Donnithorne accepted his 
own bond for himself with perfect confidence. 

So the twelve o’clock sun saw him galloping towards Nor- 
burne ; and by good fortune Halsell Common lay in his road, and 
gave him some fine leaps for Battler. Nothing like “ taking ” 
a few bushes and ditches for exorcising a demon ; and it is really 
astonishing that the Centaurs, with their immense advantages 
in this way, have left so bad a reputation in history. 

After this, you will perhaps be surprised to hear, that although 
Gawaine was at home, the hand of the dial in the courtyard had 
scarcely cleared the last stroke of three, when Arthur returned 
through the entrance-gates, got down from the panting Battler, 
and went into the house to take a hasty luncheon. But I believe 
there have been men since his day who have ridden a long way 
to avoid a rencontre, and then galloped hastily back lest they 
should miss it. It is the favorite stratagem of our passions to 
sham a retreat, and to turn sharp round upon us at the moment 
we have made up our minds that the day is our own. 

« The Cap’n ’s been ridin’ the devil’s own pace,” said Dalton 
the coachman, whose person stood out in high relief as he 
smoked his pipe against the stable wall, when John brought 
up Battler. 


182 


ADAM BEDE. 


“An’ I wish he’d get the devil to do’s grooming for 'n* 
growled J ohn. 

“ Ay ; he ’d hev a deal haimabler groom nor what he has 
now,” observed Dalton ; and the joke appeared to him so good, 
that, being left alone upon the scene, he continued at intervals 
to take his pipe from his mouth in order to wink at an imagb 
nary audience, and shake luxuriously with a silent, ventral 
laughter ; mentally rehearsing the dialogue from the begin- 
ning, that he might recite it with effect in the servants’ hall. 

When Arthur went up to his dressing-room again after lum 
cheon, it was inevitable that the debate he had had with him- 
self there earlier in the day should flash across his mind ; but 
it was impossible for him now to dwell on the remembrance — 
impossible to recall the feelings and reflections which had been 
decisive with him then, any more than to recall the peculiar 
scent of the air that had freshened him when he first opened 
his window. The desire to see Hetty had rushed back like an 
ill-stemmed current ; he was amazed himself at the force with 
which this trivial fancy seemed to grasp him: he was even 
rather tremulous as he brushed his hair — pooh ! it was riding 
in that break-neck way. It was because he had made a serious 
affair of an idle matter, by thinking of it as if it were of any 
consequence. He would amuse himself by seeing Hetty to- 
day, and get rid of the whole thing from his mind. It was all 
Irwine’s fault. “ If Irwine had said nothing, I should n’t have 
thought half so much of Hetty as of Meg’s lameness.” How- 
ever, it was just the sort of day for lolling in the Hermitage, 
and he would go and finish Dr. Moore’s “ Zeluco ” there before 
dinner. The Hermitage stood in Fir-tree Grove — the way 
Hetty was sure to come in walking from the Hall Farm. So 
nothing could be simpler and more natural : meeting Hetty 
was a mere circumstance of his walk, not its object. 

Arthur’s shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy oaks 
of the Chase than might have been expected from the shadow 
of a tired man on a warm afternoon, and it was still scarcely 
four o’clock when he stood before the tall narrow gate leading 
into the delicious labyrinthine wood which skirted one side of 
the Chase, and which was called Fir-tree Grove, not because 
























Hayslope Green, where Dinah Preached, (Ellaston) 







IN THE WOOD. 


138 


the firs were many, but because they were few. It was a 
wood, of beeches and limes, with here and there a light, silver* 
stemmed birch — just the sort of wood most haunted by the 
nymphs : you see their white sunlit limbs gleaming athwart 
the boughs, or peeping from behind the smooth-sweeping out- 
line of a tall lime ; you hear their soft liquid laughter — but 
if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye, they vanish 
behind the silvery beeches, they make you believe that their 
voice was only a running brooklet, perhaps they metamorphose 
themselves into a tawny squirrel that scampers away and 
mocks you from the topmost bough. It was not a grove with 
measured grass or rolled gravel for you to tread upon, but with 
narrow, hollow-shaped, earthy paths, edged with faint dashes 
of delicate moss — paths which look as if they were made by 
the free-will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently 
aside to look at the tall queen of the white-footed nymphs. 

It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donni- 
thorne passed, under an avenue of limes and beeches. It was 
a still afternoon — the golden light was lingering languidly 
among the upper boughs, only glancing down here and there 
on the purple pathway and its edge of faintly sprinkled moss : 
an afternoon in which destiny disguises her cold awful face 
behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downy wings, 
and poisons us with violet-scented breath. Arthur strolled 
along carelessly, with a book under his arm, but not looking 
on the ground as meditative men are apt to do ; his eyes would 
fix themselves on the distant bend in the road round which a 
little figure must surely appear before long. Ah! there she 
comes : first a bright patch of color, like a tropic bird among 
the boughs, then a tripping figure, with a round hat on, and 
a small basket under her arm ; then a deep-blushing, almost 
frightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy with a 
fluttered yet happy glance, as Arthur came up to her. If 
Arthur had had time to think at all, he would have thought 
it strange that he should feel fluttered too, be conscious of 
blushing too — in fact, look and feel as foolish as if he had 
been taken by surprise instead of meeting just what he ex- 
pected. Poor things ! It was a pity they were not in that 


134 


ADAM BEDE. 


golden age of childhood when they would havs stood face to 
face, eying each other with timid liking, then given each 
other a little butterfly kiss, and toddled off to play together. 
Arthur would have gone home to his silk-curtained cot, and 
Hetty to her homespun pillow, and both would have slept 
without dreams, and to-morrow would have been a life hardly 
conscious of a yesterday. 

Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty’s side without 
giving a reason. They were alone together for the first time. 
What an overpowering presence that first privacy is ! He 
actually dared not look at this little butter-maker for the first 
minute or two. As for Hetty, her feet rested on a cloud, and 
she was borne along by warm zephyrs ; she had forgotten hei 
rose-colored ribbons ; she was no more conscious of her limbs 
than if her childish soul had passed into a water-lily, resting 
on a liquid bed, and warmed by the midsummer sunbeams. 
It may seem a contradiction, but Arthur gathered a certain 
carelessness and confidence from his timidity : it was an en- 
tirely different state of mind from what he had expected in such 
a meeting with Hetty ; and full as he was of vague feeling, 
there was room, in those moments of silence, for the thought 
that his previous debates and scruples were needless. 

“You are quite right to choose this way of coming to 
the Chase,” he said at last, looking down at Hetty, “ it is so 
much prettier as well as shorter than coming by either of the 
lodges.” 

“Yes, sir,” Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost whis 
pering voice. She didn’t know one bit how to speak to a 
gentleman like Mr. Arthur, and her very vanity made her 
more coy of speech. 

“ Do you come every week to see Mrs. Pomfret ? ” 

“Yes, sir, every Thursday, only when she’s got to go out 
with Miss Donnithorne.” 

“ And she ’s teaching you something, is she ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, the lace-mending as she learnt abroad, and the 
stocking-mending — it looks just like the stocking, you can’t 
tell it ’s been mended ; and she teaches me cutting-out too.” 

“ What ! are you going to be a lady’s-maid ? ” 


IN THE WOOD. 


135 


u I should like to be one very much indeed.” Hetty spoke 
more audibly now, but still rather tremulously ; she thought, 
perhaps she seemed as stupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke 
Britton did to her. 

"I suppose Mrs. Pomfret always expects you at this 
time ? » 

“ She expects me at four o’clock. I ’m rather late to-day, 
because my aunt could n’t spare me ; but the regular time is 
four, because that gives us time before Miss Donnithorne’s 
bell rings.” 

“ Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to 
show you the Hermitage. Did you ever see it ? ” 

“No, sir.” 

“ This is the walk where we turn up to it. But we must 
not go now. I ’ll show it you some other time, if you ’d like 
to see it.” 

“Yes, please, sir.” 

“ Do you always come back this way in the evening, or are 
you afraid to come so lonely a road ? ” 

“ Oh no, sir, it ’s never late ; I always set out by eight 
o’clock, and it ’s so light now in the evening. My aunt would 
be angry with me if I did n’t get home before nine.” 

“ Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you ? ” 

A deep blush overspread Hetty’s face and neck. “ I ’m sure 
he does n’t ; I ’m sure he never did ; I would n’t let him ; I 
don’t like him,” she said hastily, and the tears of vexation 
had come so fast, that before she had done speaking a bright 
drop rolled down her hot cheek. Then she felt ashamed to 
death that she was crying, and for one long instant her hap- 
piness was all gone. But in the next she felt an arm steal 
round her, and a gentle voice said — 

“Why, Hetty, what makes you cry? I didn’t mean to 
vex you. I would n’t vex you for the world, you little blos- 
som. Come, don’t cry ; look at me, else I shall think you 
won’t forgive me.” 

Arthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that was nearest 
to him, and was stooping towards Hetty with a look of coax- 
ing entreaty. Hetty lifted her long dewy lashes, and met the 


136 


ADAM BEDE. 


eyes that were bent towards her with a sweet, timid, beseech' 
ing look. What a space of time those three moments were, 
while their eyes met and his arms touched her ! Love is such 
a simple thing when we have only one-and-twenty summers 
and a sweet girl of seventeen trembles under our glance, as if 
she were a bud first opening her heart with wondering rapture 
to the morning. Such young unfurrowed souls roll to meet 
each other like two velvet peaches that touch softly and are 
at rest ; they mingle as easily as two brooklets that ask for 
nothing but to entwine themselves and ripple with ever* 
interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-places. While Arthur 
gazed into Hetty’s dark beseeching eyes, it made no difference 
to him what sort of English she spoke; and even if hoops 
and powder had been in fashion, he would very likely not 
have been sensible just then that Hetty wanted those signs of 
high breeding. 

But they started asunder with beating hearts : something 
had fallen on the ground with a rattling noise ; it was Hetty’s 
basket ; all her little work-woman’s matters were scattered 
on the path, some of them showing a capability of rolling to 
great lengths. There was much to be done in picking up, 
and not a word was spoken ; but when Arthur hung the 
basket over her arm again, the poor child felt a strange dif- 
ference in his look and manner. He just pressed her hand, 
and said, with a look and tone that were almost chilling to 
her — 

“ I have been hindering you ; I must not keep you any longer 
now. You will be expected at the house. Good-by.” 

Without waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her 
and hurried back towards the road that led to the Hermitage, 
leaving Hetty to pursue her way in a strange dream, that 
seemed to have begun in bewildering delight, and was now 
passing into contrarieties and sadness. Would he meet her 
again as she came home ? Why had he spoken almost as if 
he were displeased with her ? and then run away so suddenly ? 
She cried, hardly knowing why. 

Arthur too was very uneasy, but his feelings were lit up 
for him by a more distinct consciousness. He hurried to the 


IN THE WOOD. 


137 


Hermitage, which stood in the heart of the wood, unlocked 
the door with a hasty wrench, slammed it after him, pitched 
“ Zeluoo ” into the most distant corner, and, thrusting his 
right hand into his pocket, first walked four or five times 
up and down the scanty length of the little room, and then 
seated himself on the ottoman in an uncomfortable stiff way., 
as we often do when we wish not to abandon ourselves to 
feeling. 

He was getting in love with Hetty — that was quite plain. 
He was ready to pitch everything else — no matter where — 
for the sake of surrendering himself to this delicious feeling 
which had just disclosed itself. It was no use blinking the 
fact now — they would get too fond of each other, if he went 
on taking notice of her — and what would come of it ? He 
should have to go away in a few weeks, and the poor little 
thing would be miserable. He must not see her alone again ; 
he must keep out of her way. What a fool he was for coming 
back from Gawaine’s ! 

He got up and threw open the windows, to let in the soft 
breath of the afternoon, and the healthy scent of the firs that 
made a belt round the Hermitage. The soft air did not help 
his resolutions, as he leaned out and looked into the leafy 
distance. But he considered his resolution sufficiently fixed : 
there was no need to debate with himself any longer. He 
had made up his mind not to meet Hetty again ; and now he 
might give himself up to thinking how immensely agreeable 
it would be if circumstances were different — - how pleasant it 
would have been to meet her this evening as she came back, 
and put his arm round her again and look into her sweet face. 
He wondered if the dear little thing were thinking of him too 
— twenty to one she was. How beautiful her eyes were with 
the tear on their lashes ! He would like to satisfy his soul 
for a day with looking at them, and he must see her again : — 
he must see her, simply to remove any false impression from 
her mind about his manner to her just now. He would be. 
have in a quiet, kind way to her — just to prevent her from 
going home with her head full of wrong fancies. Yes, that 
would be the best thing to do sdtjex alL 


138 


ADAM BEDE. 


It was a long while — more than an hour — before Arthur 
had brought his meditations to this point ; but once arrived 
there, he could stay no longer at the Hermitage. The time 
must be filled up with movement until he should see Hetty 
again. And it was already late enough to go and dress for 
dinner, for his grandfather’s dinner-hour was six. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

EVENING IN THE WOOD. 

It happened that Mrs. Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with 
Mrs. Best, the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning — a fact 
which had two consequences highly convenient to Hetty. It 
caused Mrs. Pomfret to have tea sent up to her own room, 
and it inspired that exemplary lady’s-maid with so lively a 
recollection of former passages in Mrs. Best’s conduct, and of 
dialogues in which Mrs. Best had decidedly the inferiority 
as an interlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty required 
no more presence of mind than was demanded for using her 
needle, and throwing in aii occasional “yes” or “no.” She 
would have wanted to put on her hat earlier than usual ; only 
she had told Captain Donnithorne that she usually set out 
about eight o’clock, and if he should go to the Grove again 
expecting to see her, and she should be gone ! Would he 
come ? Her little butterfly-soul fluttered incessantly between 
memory and dubious expectation. At last the minute-hand 
of the old-fashioned brazen-faced timepiece was on the last 
quarter to eight, and there was every reason for its being time 
to get ready for departure. Even Mrs. Pomfret’s preoccupied 
mind did not prevent her from noticing what looked like a new 
flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat before 
the looking-glass. 

“ That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do believe,” 
was her inward comment. “ The more ’s the pity. She ’ll get 
neither a place nor a husband any the sooner for it. Sober 


EVENING IN THE WOOD. 


139 


well-to-do men don’t like such pretty wives. When I was a 
girl, I was more admired than if I had been so very pretty. 
However, she ’s reason to be grateful to me for teaching her 
something to get her bread with, better than farm-house work. 
They always told me I was good-natured — and that ’s the 
truth, and to my hurt too, else there ’s them in this house that 
would n’t be here now to lord it over me in the housekeeper’s 
room.” 

Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure- 
ground which she had to traverse, dreading to meet Mr. Craig, 
to whom she could hardly have spoken civilly. How relieved 
she was when she had got safely under the oaks and among 
the fern of the Chase ! Even then she was as ready to be 
startled as the deer that leaped away at her approach. She 
thought nothing of the evening light that lay gently in tha 
grassy alleys between the fern, and made the beauty of their 
living green more visible than it had been in the overpowering 
flood of noon : she thought of nothing that was present. She 
only saw something that was possible : Mr. Arthur Donnithorne 
coming to meet her again along the Fir-tree Grove. That was 
the foreground of Hetty’s picture ; behind it lay a bright hazy 
something — days that were not to be as the other days of her 
life had been. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, 
who might any time take her to his wondrous halls below 
a watery heaven. There was no knowing what would come, 
since this strange entrancing delight had come. If a chest 
full of lace and satin and jewels had been sent her from some 
unknown source, how could she but have thought that her 
whole lot was going to change, and that to-morrow some still 
more bewildering joy would befall her ? Hetty had never 
read a novel ; if she had ever seen one, I think the words 
would have been too hard for her ; how then could she find a 
shape for her expectations ? They were as formless as the 
sweet languid odors of the garden at the Chase, which had 
floated past her as she walked by the gate. 

She is at another gate now — that leading into Fir-tree Grove. 
She enters the wood, where it is already twilight, and at every 
step she takes, the fear at her heart be^mes colder. If he 


no 


ADAM BEDE. 


should not come * Oh how dreary it was — the thought of 
going out at the other end of the wood, into the unsheltered 
road, without having seen him. She reaches the first turning 
towards the Hermitage, walking slowly — he is not there. She 
hates the leveret that runs across the path : she hates every- 
thing that is not what she longs for. She walks on, happy 
whenever she is coming to a bend in the road, for perhaps he 
is behind it. Ho. She is beginning to cry: her heart has 
swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes ; she gives one great 
sob, while the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll 
down. 

She does n’t know that there is another turning to the Her* 
mitage, that she is close against it, and that Arthur Donni- 
thorne is only a few yards from her, full of one thought, and 
a thought of which she only is the object. He is going to see 
Hetty again: that is the longing which has been growing 
through the last three hours to a feverish thirst. Hot, of 
course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had un- 
guardedly fallen before dinner, but to set things right with her 
by a kindness which would have the air of friendly civility, 
and prevent her from running away with wrong notions about 
their mutual relation. 

If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried ; 
and it would have been better, for then Arthur would perhaps 
have behaved as wisely as he had intended. As it was, she 
started when he appeared at the end of the side-alley, and 
looked up at him with two great drops rolling down her cheeks. 
What else could he do but speak to her in a soft, soothing tone, 
is if she were a bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in her foot ? 

“ Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen 
anything in the wood ? Don’t be frightened — I ’ll take care 
of you now.” 

Hetty was blushing so, she did n’t know whether she was 
happy or miserable. To be crying again— what did gentle- 
men think of girls who cried in that way ? She felt unable 
even to say "no,” but could only look away from him, and 
wipe the tears from her cheek. Hot before a great drop had 
fallen on her rose-colored strings : she knew that quite welL 


EVENING IN THE WOOD. 141 

u Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what ’s 
the matter. Come, tell me.” 

Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, u I thought 
you wouldn’t come,” and slowly got courage to lift her eyes 
to him. That look was too much : he must have had eyes of 
Egyptian granite not to look too lovingly in return. 

“ You little frightened bird ! little tearful rose ! silly pet ! 
/ou won’t cry again, now I ’m with you, will you ? ” 

Ah, he does n’t know in the least what he is sayings This 
is not what he meant to say. His arm is stealing round the 
waist again, it is tightening its clasp ; he is bending his face 
nearer and nearer to the round cheek, his lips are meeting 
those pouting child-lips, and for a long moment time has van- 
ished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for aught he knows, 
he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may be 
Eros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche — it is all one. 

There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked 
along with beating hearts till they came within sight of the gate 
at-the end of the wood. Then they looked at each other, not 
quite as they had looked before, for in their eyes there was 
the memory of a kiss. 

But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with 
the fountain of sweets : already Arthur was uncomfortable'. 
He took his arm from Hetty’s waist, and said — 

“ Here we are, almost at the end of the grove. I wonder 
how late it is,” he added, pulling out his watch. “ Twenty 
minutes past eight — but my watch is too fast. However, I ’d 
better not go any further now. Trot along quickly with your 
little feet, and get home safely. Good-by.” 

He took her hand, and looked at her half sadly, half with a 
constrained smile. Hetty’s eyes seemed to beseech him not to 
go away yet ; but he patted her cheek and said “ Good-by ” 
again. She was obliged to turn away from him, and go on. 

As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he 
wanted to put a wide space between himself and Hetty. He 
would not go to the Hermitage again ; he remembered how he 
had debated with himself there before dinner, and it had all 
come to nothing — worse than nothing. He walked right on 


142 


ADAM BEDE. 


into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, which surely was 
haunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes 
— there was something enervating in the very sight of them 
but the strong knotted old oaks had no bending languor in 
them — the sight of them would give a man some energy. 
Arthur lost himself among the narrow openings in the fern, 
winding about without seeking, any issue, till the twilight 
deepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare 
looked black as it darted across his path. 

He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the 
morning : it was as if his horse had wheeled round from a leap, 
and dared to dispute his mastery. He was dissatisfied with 
himself, irritated, mortified. He no sooner fixed his mind on 
the probable consequences of giving way to the emotions which 
had stolen over him to-day — of continuing to notice Hetty, of 
allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caresses as 
he had been betrayed into already — than he refused to believe 
such a future possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty was a 
very different affair from flirting with a pretty girl of his own 
station : that was understood to be an amusement on both 
sides ; or, if it became serious, there was no obstacle to mar- 
riage. But this little thing would be spoken ill of directly, if 
she happened to be seen walking with him ; and then those 
excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name was as 
precious as if they had the best blood in the land in their 
veins — he should hate himself if he made a scandal of that 
sort, on the estate that was to be his own some day, and 
among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to be respected. 
He could no more believe that he should so fall in his own 
esteem than that he should break both his legs and go on 
crutches all the rest of his life. He could n’t imagine himself 
in that position ; it was too odious, too unlike him. 

And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get 
too fond of each other, and then there could be nothing but 
the misery of parting, after all. No gentleman, out of a bal- 
lad, could marry a farmer’s niece. There must be an end to 
the whole thing at once. It was too foolish. 

And yet he had been so determined this morning, before he 


THE RETURN HOME. 


143 


went to Gawaine’s; and while he was there something had 
taken hold of him and made him gallop back. It seemed, he 
could n’t quite depend on his own resolution, as he had thought 
he could : he almost wished his arm would get painful again, 
and then he should think of nothing but the comfort it would 
be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what impulse 
might seize him to-morrow, in this confounded place, where 
there was nothing to occupy him imperiously through the live- 
long day. What could he do to secure himself from any more 
of this folly ? 

There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine 
— tell him everything. The mere act of telling it would 
make it seem trivial ; the temptation would vanish, as the 
charm of fond words vanishes when one repeats them to the 
indifferent. In every way it would help him, to tell Irwine. 
He would ride to Broxton Rectory the first thing after break- 
fast to-morrow. 

Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he 
began to think which of the paths would lead him home, and 
made^ as short a walk thither as he could. He felt sure he 
should sleep now : he had had enough to tire him, and there 
was no more need for him to think. 


CHAPTER XIV. 
the eetubn home. 

While that parting in the wood was happening, there was 
a parting in the cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam 
at the door, straining her aged eyes to get the last glimpse of 
Seth and Dinah, as they mounted the opposite slope. 

" Eh, I ’m loath to see the last on her,” she said to Adam, 
as they turned into the house again. “ I ’d ha’ been willin’ t J 
ha’ her about me till I died and went to lie by my old man. 
She ’d make it easier dyin’ — she spakes so gentle an’ moves 
about so still I could be fast sure that pictur was drawed 


144 


ADAM BEDE. 


for her i’ thy new Bible — $h’ angel a-sittin’ on the big stone 
by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind ha’in’ a daughter like 
that ; but nobody ne’er marries them as is good for aught.” 

“ Well, mother, I hope thee wilt have her for a daughter ; 
for Seth ’s got a liking for her, and I hope she ’ll get a liking 
for Seth in time.” 

“ Where ’s th’ use o’ talkin' a-that’n ? She caresna for 
Seth. She ’s goin’ away twenty mile aff. How ’s she to gel 
a likin’ for him, I ’d like to know ? No more nor the cake 
hill come wi’out the leaven. Thy figurin’ books might ha’ 
tould thee better nor that, I should think, else thee mightst as 
well read the commin print, as Seth allays does.” 

“ Nay, mother,” said Adam, laughing, “ the figures tell us a 
fine deal, and we could n’t go far without ’em, but they don’t 
tell us about folks’s feelings. It’s a nicer job to calculate 
them. But Seth ’s as good-hearted a lad as ever handled a 
tool, and plenty o’ sense, and good-looking too ; and he ’s got 
the same way o’ thinking as Dinah. He deserves to win her, 
though there ’s no denying she ’s a rare bit o’ workmanship. 
You don’t see such women turned off the wheel every day.” 

“ Eh, thee ’t allays stick up for thy brother. Thee ’st been 
just the same, e’er sin’ ye war little uns together. Thee wart 
allays for halving iverything wi’ him. But what ’s Seth got 
to do with marryin’, as is on’y three-an’-twenty ? He ’d 
more need to learn an’ lay by sixpence. An’ as for his desarv- 
ing her — she ’s two ’ear older nor Seth : she ’s pretty near as 
old as thee. But that ’s the way ; folks mun allays choose by 
contrairies, as if they must be sorted like the pork — a bit o’ 
good meat wi’ a bit o’ offal.” 

To the feminine mind in some of its moods, all things that 
might be, receive a temporary charm from comparison with 
what is ; and since Adam did not want to marry Dinah him- 
self, Lisbeth felt rather peevish on that score — as peevish as 
she would have been if he had wanted to marry her, and so 
shut himself out from Mary Burge and the partnership as 
effectually as by marrying Hetty. 

It was more than half-past eight when Adam and his mother 
were talking in this way, so that when, about ten minutes 


THE RETURN HOME. 


145 

later, Hetty reached the turning of the lane that led to the 
farmyard gate, she saw Dinah and Seth approaching it from 
the opposite direction, and waited for them to come up to her. 
They, too, like Hetty, had lingered a little in their walk, for 
Dinah was trying to speak words of comfort and strength to 
Seth in these parting moments. But when they saw Hetty, 
they paused and shook hands : Seth turned homewards, and 
Dinah came on alone. 

u Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear/* 
she said, as she reached Hetty, “ but he *s very full of trouble 
to-night.** 

Hetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not 
quite know what had been said ; and it made a strange con- 
trast to see that sparkling self-engrossed loveliness looked at 
by Dinah’s calm pitying face, with its open glance which told 
that her heart lived in no cherished secrets of its own, but in 
feelings which it longed to share with all the world. Hetty 
liked Dinah as well as she had ever liked any woman ; how 
was it possible to feel otherwise towards one who always put 
in a -kind word for her when her aunt was finding fault, and 
who was always ready to take Totty off her hands — little 
tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet of by every one, and 
that Hetty could see no interest in at all ? Dinah had never 
said anything disapproving or reproachful to Hetty during her 
whole visit to the Hall Farm ; she had talked to her a great 
deal in a serious way, but Hetty did n*t mind that much, for 
she never listened : whatever Dinah might say, she almost 
always stroked Hetty’s cheek after it, and wanted to do some 
mending for her. Dinah was a riddle to her ; Hetty looked 
at her much in the same way as one might imagine a little 
perching bird that could only flutter from bough to bough, to 
look at the swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark ; 
but she did not care to solve such riddles, any more than she 
cared to know what was meant by the pictures in the “ Pil- 
grim’s Progress,” or in the old folio Bible that Marty and 
Tommy always plagued her about on a Sunday. 

Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm. 

“You look very happy to-night, dear child,” she said. “J 

VOL. I. 


146 


ADAM BEDE. 


shall think of yon often when I ’m at Snowfield, and see your 
face before me as it is now. It ’s a strange thing — sometimes 
when I ’m quite alone, sitting in my room with my eyes closed, 
or walking over the hills, the people I Ve seen and known, if 
it ’s only been for a few days, are brought before me, and I 
hear their voices and see them look and move almost plainer 
than I ever did when they were really with me so as I could 
touch them. And then my heart is drawn out towards them, 
and I feel their lot as if it was my own, and I take comfort in 
spreading it before the Lord and resting in his love, on their 
behalf as well as my own. And so I feel sure you will come 
before me.” 

She paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing. 

“It has been a very precious time to me,” Dinah went on, 
“last night and to-day — seeing two such good sons as Adam 
and Seth Bede. They are so tender and thoughtful for their 
aged mother. And she has been telling me what Adam has 
done, for these many years, to help his father and his brother; 
it ’s wonderful what a spirit of wisdom and knowledge he has, 
and how he ’s ready to use it all in behalf of them that are 
feeble. And I ’m sure he has a loving spirit too. I ’ve noticed 
it often among my o wn people round Snowfield, that the strong 
skilful men are often the gentlest to the women and children ; 
and it ’s pretty to see ’em carrying the little babies as if they 
were no heavier than little birds. And the babies always seem 
to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it would be so with 
Adam Bede. Don’t you think so, Hetty ? ” 

“Yes,” said Hetty, abstractedly, for her mind had been all 
the while in the wood, and she would have found it difficult 
to say what she was assenting to. Dinah saw she was not in- 
clined to talk, but there would not have been time to say much 
more, for they were now at the yard-gate. 

The still twilight, with its dying western red, and its few 
faint struggling stars, rested on the farmyard, where there was 
not a sound to be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in 
the stable. It was about twenty minutes after sunset: the 
fowls were all gone to roost, and the bull-dog lay stretched on 
the straw outside his kennel, with the black-and-tan terrier by 


THE RETURN HOME. 


147 


his side, when the falling-to of the gate disturbed them, and 
set them barking, like good officials, before they had any dis- 
tinct knowledge of the reason. 

The barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and 
Hetty approached, the doorway was filled by a portly figure, 
with a ruddy black-eyed face, which bore in it the possibility 
of looking extremely acute, and occasionally contemptuous, on 
market-days, but had now a predominant after-supper expres- 
sion of hearty good-nature. It is well known that great scho 7 
ars who have shown the most pitiless acerbity in their criticism 
of other men’s scholarship, have yet been of a relenting and 
indulgent temper in private life ; and I have heard of a learned 
man meekly rocking the twins in the cradle with his left hand, 
while with his right he inflicted the most lacerating sarcasms on 
an opponent who had betrayed a brutal ignorance of Hebrew. 
Weaknesses and errors must be forgiven — alas! they are not 
alien to us — but the man who takes the wrong side on the 
momentous subject of the Hebrew points must be treated as 
the enemy of his race. There was the same sort of antithetic 
mixture in Martin Poyser : he was of so excellent a disposition 
that he had been kinder and more respectful than ever to his 
old father since he had made a deed of gift of all his property, 
and no man judged his neighbors more charitably on all per- 
sonal matters ; but for a farmer, like Luke Britton, for example, 
whose fallows were not well cleaned, who didn’t know the 
rudiments of hedging and ditching, and showed but a small 
share of judgment in the purchase of winter stock, Martin 
Poyser was as hard and implacable as the northeast wind. 
Luke Britton could not make a remark, even on the weather, 
but Martin Poyser detected in it a taint of that unsoundness 
and general ignorance which was palpable in all his farming 
operations. He hated to see the fellow lift the pewter pint to 
his mouth in the bar of the Royal George on market-day, and 
the mere sight of him on the other side of the road brought a 
severe and critical expression into his black eyes, as different 
as possible from the fatherly glance he bent on his two nieces 
as they approached the door. Mr. Poyser had smoked his 
evening pipe, and mow held his hands in his pockets, as the 


148 


ADAM BEDE. 


only resource of a man who continues to sit up after the day’s 
business is done. 

“Why, lasses, ye’re rather late to-night,” he said, when 
they reached the little gate leading into the causeway. “ The 
mother ’s begun to fidget about you, an’ she ’s got the little un 
ill. An’ how did you leave the old woman Bede, Dinah ? Is 
she much down about the old man ? He ’d been but a poor 
bargain to her this five year.” 

“ She ’s been greatly distressed for the loss of him,” said 
Dinah ; “ but she ’s seemed more comforted to-day. Her son 
Adam’s been at home all day, working at his father’s coffin, 
and she loves to have him at home. She ’s been talking about 
him to me almost all the day. She has a loving heart, though 
she ’s sorely given to fret and be fearful. I wish she had a 
surer trust to comfort her in her old age.” 

“ Adam ’s sure enough,” said Mr. Poyser, misunderstanding 
Dinah’s wish. “ There ’s no fear but he ’ll yield well i’ the 
threshing. He ’s not one o’ them as is all straw and no grain. 
I ’ll be bond for him any day, as he ’ll be a good son to the 
last. Did he say he ’d be coming to see us soon ? But come 
in, come in,” he added, making way for them ; “ I had n’t need 
keep y’ out any longer.” 

The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of 
the sky, but the large window let in abundant light to show 
every corner of the house-place. 

Mrs. Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been 
brought out of the “ right-hand parlor,” was trying to soothe 
Totty to sleep. But Totty was not disposed to sleep ; and 
when her cousins entered, she raised herself up, and showed 
a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter than ever now 
they were defined by the edge of her linen night-cap. 

In the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand 
chimney-nook sat old Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and 
bleached image of his portly black-haired son — his head 
hanging forward a little, and his elbows pushed backwards so 
as to allow the whole of his fore-arm to rest on the arm of the 
chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his knees, as 
was usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head ; 


THE RETURN HOME. 


149 


and lie sat watching what went forward with the quiet out- 
ward glance of healthy old age, which, disengaged from any 
interest in an inward drama, spies out pins upon the floor, 
follows one’s minutest motions with an unexpectant purpose- 
less tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or the sun- 
gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on the floor, watches 
even the hand of the clock, and pleases itself with detecting 
a rhythm in the tick. 

“ What a time o’ night this is to come home, Hetty ! ” said 
Mrs. Poyser. “ Look at the clock, do ; why, it ’s going on for 
half-past nine, and I ’ye sent the gells to bed this half-hour, 
and late enough too ; when they ’ve got to get up at half after 
four, and the mowers’ bottles to fill, and the baking ; and 
here ’s this blessed child wi’ the fever for what I know, and 
as wakeful as if it was dinner-time, and nobody to help me 
to give her the physic but your uncle, and fine work there ’s 
been, and half of it spilt on her night-gown — it ’s well if 
she ’s swallowed more nor ’ull make her worse istead o’ better. 
But folks as have no mind to be o’ use have allays the luck 
to be out o’ the road when there ’s anything to be done.” 

“ I did set out before eight, aunt,” said Hetty, in a pettish 
tone, with a slight toss of her head. “ But this clock ’s so 
much before the clock at the Chase, there ’s no telling what 
time it ’ll be when I get here.” 

“ What ! you ’d be wanting the clock set by gentlefolks’s 
time, would you ? an’ sit up burnin’ candle, an’ lie a-bed wi’ 
the sun a-bakin’ you like a cowcumber i’ the frame ? The clock 
has n’t been put forrara for the first time to-day, I reckon.” 

The fact was, Hetty had really forgotten the 'difference of 
the clocks when she told Captain Donnithorne that she set 
out at eight, and this, with her lingering pace, had made her 
nearly half an hour later than usual. But here her aunt’s 
attention was diverted from this tender subject by Totty, who, 
perceiving at length that the arrival of her cousins was not 
likely to bring anything satisfactory to her in particular, 
began to cry, “ Munny, munny,” in an explosive manner. 

“ Well, then, my pet, mother ’s got her, mother won’t leave 
her ; Totty be a good dilling, and go to sleep now,” said Mrs. 


150 


ADAM BEDE. 


Poyser, leaning back and rocking the chair, while she tried to 
make Totty nestle against her. But Totty only cried louder, 
and said, “ Don’t yock ! ” So the mother, with that wondrous 
patience which love gives to the quickest temperament, sat 
up again, and pressed her cheek against the linen night-cap 
and kissed it, and forgot to scold Hetty any longer. 

“ Come, Hetty,” said Martin Poyser, in a conciliatory tone, 
“ go and get your supper i’ the pantry, as the things are all 
put away ; an’ then you can come and take the little un while 
your aunt undresses herself, for she won’t lie down in bed 
without her mother. An’ I reckon you could eat a bit, Dinah, 
for they don’t keep much of a house down there.” 

“No, thank you, uncle,” said Dinah; “I ate a good meal 
before I came away, for Mrs. Bede would make a kettle-cake 
for me.” 

“ I don’t want any supper,” said Hetty, taking off her hat, 
“ I can hold Totty now, if aunt wants me.” 

“ Why, what nonsense that is to talk ! ” said Mrs. Poyser. 
“ Do you think you can live wi’out eatin’, an’ nourish your 
inside wi’ stickin’ red ribbons on your head ? Go an’ get 
your supper this minute, child ; there ’s a nice bit o’ cold 
pudding i’ the safe — just what you ’re fond of.” 

Hetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and 
Mrs. Poyser went on speaking to Dinah. 

“ Sit down, my dear, an’ look as if you knowed what it was 
to make yourself a bit comfortable i’ the world. I warrant the 
old woman was glad to see you, since you stayed so long.” 

“ She seemed to like having me there at last ; but her sons 
say she does n’t like young women about her commonly ; and 
I thought just at first she was almost angry with me for 
going.” 

“ Eh, it ’s a poor look-out when th’ ould folks doesna like 
the young uns,” said old Martin, bending his head down 
lower, and seeming to trace the pattern of the quarries with 
his eye. 

“ Ay, it ’s ill livin’ in a hen-roost for them as does n’t like 
fleas,” said Mrs. Poyser. “We’ve all had our turn at bein’ 
young, I reckon, be’t good luck or ill.” 


THE RETURN HOME. 


151 


e< But she must learn to ’commodate herself to young 
women/’ said Mr. Poyser, “ for it is n’t to be counted on as 
Adam and Seth ’ull keep bachelors for the next ten year to 
please their mother. That ’ud be unreasonable. It isn’t 
right for old nor young nayther to make a bargain all o’ their 
own side. What ’s good for one ’s good all round i’ the long- 
run. I ’m no friend to young fellows a-marrying afore they 
know the difference at ween a crab an’ a apple ; but they may 
wait o’er long.” 

“To be sure/’ said Mrs. Poyser; “if you go past your 
dinner-time, there ’ll be little relish o’ your meat. You turn 
it o’er an’ o’er wi’ your fork, an’ don’t eat it after all. You 
find faut wi’ your meat, an’ the faut’s all i’ your own 
stomach.” 

Hetty now came back from the pantry, and said, “ I can take 
Totty now, aunt, if you like.” 

“ Come, Rachel,” said Mr. Poyser, as his wife seemed to hesi- 
tate, seeing that Totty was at last nestling quietly, “ thee ’dst 
better let Hetty carry her up-stairs, while thee tak’st thy things 
off. Thee ’t tired. It ’s time thee wast in bed. Thee ’t bring 
on the pain in thy side again.” 

“Well, she may hold her if the child ’ull go to her,” said 
Mrs. Poyser. 

Hetty went close to the rocking-chair, and stood without her 
usual smile, and without any attempt to entice Totty, simply 
waiting for her aunt to give the child into her hands. 

“Wilt go to cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets 
ready to go to bed ? Then Totty shall go into mother’s bed, 
and sleep there all night.” 

Before her mother had done speaking, Totty had given her 
answer in an unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow, set- 
ting her tiny teeth against her under-lip, and leaning forward 
to slap Hetty on the arm with her utmost force. Then, without 
speaking, she nestled to her mother again. 

“ Hey, hey,” said Mr. Poyser, while Hetty stood without mov- 
ing, “ not go to cousin Hetty ? That ’s like a babby : Totty ’s 
a little woman, an’ not a babby.” 

“ It ’s no use trying to persuade her.” said Mrs. Poyser. 


152 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ She allays takes against Hetty when she is n’t well. Happen 
she ’ll go to Dinah.” 

Dinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto 
kept quietly seated in the background, not liking to thrust 
herself between Hetty and what was considered Hetty’s proper 
work. But now she came forward, and, putting out her arms, 
said, “ Come, Totty, come and let Dinah carry her up-stairs 
along with mother : poor, poor mother ! she ’s so tired — she 
wants to go to bed.” 

Totty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her an 
instant, then lifted herself up, put out her little arms, and let 
Dinah lift her from her mother’s lap. Hetty turned away 
without any sign of ill-humor, and, taking her hat from the 
table, stood waiting with an air of indifference, to see if she 
should be told to do anything else. 

“You may make the door fast now, Poyser; Alick ? s been 
come in this long while,” said Mrs. Poyser, rising with an 
appearance of relief from her low chair. “Get me the matches 
down, Hetty, for I must have the rushlight burning i’ my room 
Come, father.” 

The heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, and 
old Martin prepared to move, by gathering up his blue handker- 
chief, and reaching his bright knobbed walnut-tree stick from 
the corner. . Mrs. Poyser then led the way out of the kitchen, 
followed by the grandfather, and Dinah with Totty in her arms 
— all going to bed by twilight, like the birds. Mrs. Poyser, 
on her way, peeped into the room where her two boys lay, just 
to see their ruddy round cheeks on the pillow, and to hear for 
a moment their light regular breathing. 

“ Come, Hetty, get to bed,” said Mr. Poyser, in a soothing 
tone, as he himself turned to go up-stairs. “'You didna mean 
to be late, I ’ll be bound, but your aunt ’s been worrited to-day. 
Good-night, my wench, good-night.” 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 


153 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 

Hetty and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms 
adjoining each other, meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds 
to shut out the light, which was now beginning to gather new 
strength from the rising of the moon — more than enough 
strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress with 
perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in the old 
painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown ; she 
could see the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion ; 
she could see a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking- 
glass, quite as distinct as was needful, considering that she 
had only to brush her hair and put on her night-cap. A queer 
old looking-glass ! Hetty got into an ill-temper with it almost 
every time she dressed. It had been considered a handsome 
glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the Poyser 
family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel house- 
hold furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something 
for it: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it; it 
had a firm mahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which 
opened with a decided jerk, and set the contents leaping out 
from the farthest corners, without giving you the trouble of 
reaching them ; above all, it had a brass candle-socket on each 
side, which would give it an aristocratic air to the very last. 
But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous dim blotches 
sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove, 
and because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it 
was fixed in an upright position, so that she could only get one 
good view of her head and neck, and that was to be had only 
by sitting down on a low chair before her dressing-table. And 
the dressing-table was no dressing-table at all, but a small old 
chest of drawers, the most awkward thing in the world to sit 
down before, for the big brass handles quite hurt her knees, 
and she could n’t get near the glass at all comfortably. But 


154 


ADAM, BEDE. 


devout worshippers never allow inconveniences to prevent them 
from performing their religious rites, and Hetty this evening 
was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual. 

Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a 
key from the large pocket that hung outside her petticoat, 
and, unlocking one of the lower drawers in the chest, reached 
from it two short bits of wax candle — secretly bought at 
Treddleston — and stuck them in the two brass sockets. Then 
she drew forth a bundle of matches, and lighted the candles ; 
and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, with- 
out blotches. It was into this small glass that she chose to 
look first after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling, 
and turning her head on one side, for a minute, then laid it 
down and took out her brush and comb from an upper drawer. 
She was going to let down her hair, and make herself look 
like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne’s 
dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine 
curves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely 
rippling hair, but soft and silken, running at every oppor- 
tunity into delicate rings. But she pushed it all backward 
to look like the picture, and form a dark curtain, throwing 
into relief her round white neck. Then she put down her 
brush and comb, and looked at herself, folding her arms 
before her, still like the picture. Even the old mottled glass 
could n’t help sending back a lovely image, none the less 
lovely because Hetty’s stays were not of white satin — such 
as I feel sure heroines must generally wear — but of a dark 
greenish cotton texture. 

Oh yes ! she was very pretty : Captain Donnithorne thought 
so. Prettier than anybody about Hayslope — prettier than 
any of the ladies she had ever seen visiting at the Chase — 
indeed it seemed fine ladies were rather old and ugly — and 
prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller’s daughter, who was 
called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at her- 
self to-night with quite a different sensation from what she 
had ever felt before ; there was an invisible spectator whose 
eye rested on her like morning on the flowers. His soft voice 
was saying over and over again those pretty things she had 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 


155 


hearu in the wood ; his arm was round her, and the delicate 
rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The vainest woman is 
never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is loved 
by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return. 

But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that some- 
thing was wanting, for she got up and reached an old black 
lace scarf out of the linen-press, and a pair of large ear- 
rings out of the sacred drawer from which she had taken her 
candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents, but it would 
make a becoming border round her shoulders, and set off the 
whiteness of her upper arm And she would take out the 
little earrings she had in her ears — oh, how her aunt had 
scolded her for having her ears bored! — and put in those 
large ones : they were but colored glass and gilding ; but if 
you didn’t know what they were made of, they looked just 
as well as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, 
with the large earrings in her ears, and the black lace scarf 
adjusted round her shoulders. She looked down at her arms : 
no arms could be prettier down to a little way below the 
elbow — they were white and plump, and dimpled to match 
her cheeks ; but towards the wrist, she thought with vexation 
that they were coarsened by butter-making, and other work 
that ladies never did. 

Captain Donnithorne could n’t like her to go on doing work : 
he would like to see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes and 
white stockings, perhaps with silk clocks to them; for he 
must love her very much — no one else had ever put his arm 
round her and kissed her in that way. He would want to 
marry her, and make a lady of her; she could hardly dare 
to shape the thought — yet how else could it be ? Marry her 
quite secretly, as Mr. James, the Doctor’s assistant, married 
the Doctor’s niece, and nobody ever found it out for a long 
while after, and then it was of no use to be angry. The 
Doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty’s hearing. She 
did n’t know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old 
Squire could never be told anything about it, for Hetty was 
ready to faint with awe and fright if she came across him at 
the Chase. He might have been earth-born, for what she 


156 


ADAM BEDE. 


knew : it had never entered her mind that he had been young 
like other men ; he had always been the old Squire at whom 
everybody was frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think 
how it would be ! But Captain Donnithorne would know ; he 
was a great gentleman, and could have his way in everything, 
and could buy everything he liked. And nothing could be as 
it had been again: perhaps some day she should be a grand 
lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded 
silk, with feathers in her hair, and her dress sweeping the 
ground, like Miss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them 
going into the dining-room one evening, as she peeped through 
the little round window in the lobby ; only she should not be 
old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the same thickness like 
Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in a great 
many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and 
sometimes in a white one — she did n’t know which she liked 
best ; and Mary Burge and everybody would perhaps see her 
going out in her carriage — or rather, they would hear of it • 
it was impossible to imagine these things happening at Hay- 
slope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this splen- 
dor, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the 
little red-framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it 
fell with a bang on the floor ; but she was too eagerly occu- 
pied with her vision to care about picking it up ; .and after a 
momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon-like stateliness 
backwards and forwards along her room, in her colored stays 
and colored skirt, and the old black lace scarf round her 
shoulders, and the great glass earrings in her ears. 

How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress ! It 
would be the easiest folly in the world to fall in love with her : 
there is such a sweet baby-like roundness about her face and 
figure ; the delicate dark rings of hair lie so charmingly about 
her ears and neck ; her great dark eyes with their long eye- 
lashes touch one so strangely, as if an imprisoned frisky 
sprite looked out of them. 

Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like 
Hetty ! How the men envy him who come to the wedding 
breakfast, and see her hanging on his arm in her white lace 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 


157 


and orange blossoms. The dear, young, round, soft, flexible 
thing ! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just as 
free from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything 
ever goes wrong, it must be the husband’s fault there : he can 
make her what he likes — that is plain. And the lover him- 
self thinks so too : the little darling is so fond of him, her 
little vanities are so bewitching, he would n’t consent to her 
being a bit wiser ; those kitten-like glances and movements 
are just what one wants to make one’s hearth a paradise. 
Every man under such circumstances is conscious of being a 
great physiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of 
her own, which she uses with strict veracity, and he considers 
himself an adept in the language. Nature has written out 
his bride’s charactei for him in those exquisite lines of cheek 
and lip and chin, in those eyelids delicate as petals, in those 
long lashes curled like the stamen of a flower, in the dark 
liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will doat on 
her children! She is almost a child herself, and the little 
pink round things will hang about her like florets round the 
central flower ; and the husband will look on, smiling be- 
nignly, able, whenever he chooses, to withdraw into the 
sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet wife will 
look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriage 
such as they made in the golden age, when the men were all 
wise and majestic, and the women all lovely and loving. 

It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede 
thought about Hetty ; only he put his thoughts into different 
words. If ever she behaved with cold vanity towards him, 
he said to himself, it is only because she does n’t love me well 
enough ; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, 
would be the most precious thing a man could possess on earth. 
Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, pray 
ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil of 
any pretty woman — if you ever could , without hard head- 
breaking demonstration, believe evil of the one supremely 
pretty woman who has bewitched you. No : people who love 
downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone., and some* 
times jar their teeth ^erribly against it. 


158 


ADAM BEDE. 


Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about 
Hetty, so far as h. had thought of her nature at all. He felt 
sure she was a dear, affectionate, good little thing. The man 
who awakes the wondering tremulous passion of a young gin 
always thinks her affectionate ; and if he chances to look 
forward to future years, probably imagines himself being 
virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so cling- 
Ingly fond of him. God made these dear women so — and it 
is a convenient arrangement in case of sickness. 

After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this 
way sometimes, and must think both better and worse of 
people than they deserve. Nature has her language, and she 
is not unveracious ; but we don’t know all the intricacies of 
her syntax just yet, and in a hasty reading we may happen to 
extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark 
eyelashes, now : what can be more exquisite ? I find it im- 
possible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep gray 
eye with a long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which 
has shown me that they may go along with deceit, peculation, 
and stupidity. But if, in the reaction of disgust, I have be- 
taken myself to a fishy eye, there has been a surprising simi- 
larity of result. One begins to suspect at length that there is 
no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals j or else, 
that the eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one’s 
grandmother, which is on the whole less important to us. 

No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty’s ; and now, 
while she walks with her pigeon-like stateliness along the 
room and looks down on her shoulders bordered by the old black 
lace, the dark fringe shows to perfection on her pink cheek. 
They are but dim ill-defined pictures that her narrow bit of an 
imagination can make of the future ; but of every picture she 
is the central figure in fine clothes ; Captain Donnithorne is 
very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing 
her, and everybody else is admiring and envying her — es- 
pecially Mary Burge, whose new print dress looks very con- 
temptible by the side of Hetty’s resplendent toilet. Does 
any sweet or sad memory mingle with this dream of the 
future — any loving thought of her second parents — of the 


THE TWO BED-OH AMBERS. 


159 


children she had helped to tend — of any youthful companion, 
any pet animal, any relic of her own childhood even ? Not 
one. There are some plants that have hardly any roots : you 
may tear them from their native nook of rock or wall, and 
just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot, and they 
blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past 
life behind her, and never cared to be reminded of it again. 
I think she had no feeling at all towards the old house, and 
did not like the Jacob’s Ladder and the long row of hollyhocks 
in the garden better than other flowers — perhaps not so well. 
It was wonderful how little she seemed to care about waiting 
on her uncle, who had been a good father to her : she hardly 
ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time with* 
out being told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who 
would have a better opportunity of seeing her as she walked 
across the hearth. Hetty did not understand how anybody 
could be very fond of middle-aged people. And as for those 
tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had 
been the very nuisance of her xife — as bad as buzzing insects 
that will come teasing you on a hot day when you want to be 
quiet. Marty, the eldest, was a baby when she first came to 
the farm, for the children born before him had died, and so 
Hetty had had them all three, one after the other, toddling 
by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on wet days 
in the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys 
were out of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, 
worse than either of the others had been, because there was 
more fuss made about her. And there was no end to the mak- 
ing and mending of clothes. Hetty would have been glad to 
hear that she should never see a child again ; they were worse 
than the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always 
bringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time ; for 
the lambs were got rid of sooner or later. As for the young 
chickens and turkeys, Hetty would have hated the very word 
"hatching,” if her aunt had not bribed her to attend to the 
young poultry by promising her the proceeds of one out of 
every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from 
under their mother’s wing never touched Hetty with aiy/ 


160 


ADAM BEDE. 


pleasure ; that was not the sort oi prettiness she cared about, 
but she did care about the prettiness of the new things she 
would buy for herself at Treddleston fair with the money they 
fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled, so charming, as she 
stooped down to put the soaked bread under the hen-coop, 
chat you must have been a very acute personage indeed to 
suspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a 
curn-up nose and a protuberant jaw, was really a tender- 
hearted girl, and, as Mrs. Poyser said, a jewel to look after 
the poultry ; but her stolid face showed nothing of this 
maternal delight, any more than a brown earthenware pitcher 
will show the light of the lamp within it. 

It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral 
deficiencies hidden under the “dear deceit ” of beauty : so it 
is not surprising that Mrs. Poyser, with her keenness and 
abundant opportunity for observation, should have formed a 
tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected from Hetty 
in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she had 
sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her 
husband. 

“ She ’s no better than a peacock, as ’ud strut about on the 
wall, and spread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i’ 
che parish was dying: there’s nothing seems to give her a 
turn i’ th’ inside, not even when we thought Totty had tum- 
bled into the pit. To think o’ that dear cherub! And we 
found her wi’ her little shoes stuck i’ the mud an’ crying fit 
to break her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never 
minded it, I could see, though she ’s been at the nussin’ o’ the 
child ever since it was a babby. It ’s my belief her heart ’s as 
hard as a pebble.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, “thee mustn’t judge Hetty 
too hard. Them young gells are like the unripe grain ; they ’ll 
make good meal by-and-by, but they ’re squashy as yet. Thee ’t 
see Hetty ’ll be all right when she ’s got a good husband and 
children of her own.” 

“ 7 don’t want to be hard upo’ the gell. She ’s got clivei 
fingers of her own, and can be useful enough when she likes^ 
and I should miss her wi’ the butter, for she ’s got a cool hand 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 


161 


An 7 iei be what may, I ’d strive to do my part by a niece o 
yours, an’ that I ’ve done : for I ’ve taught her everything as 
belongs to a house, an’ I ’ve told her her duty often enough, 
though, God knows, I ’ve no breath to spare, an’ that catchin’ 
pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi’ them three gells in the 
house I’d need have twice the strength, to keep ’em up to 
olieir work. It ’s like having roast meat at three fires ; as soon 
as you ’ve basted one, another ’s burnin’.” 

Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious 
to conceal from her so much of her vanity as could be hidden 
without too great a sacrifice. She could not resist spending 
her money in bits of finery which Mrs. Poyser disapproved ; 
but she would have been ready to die with shame, vexation, 
and fright, if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and 
seen her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about 
decked in her scarf and earrings. To prevent such a surprise, 
she always bolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so 
to-night. It was well : for there now came a light tap, and 
Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles 
and throw them into the drawer. She dared not stay to take 
out her earrings, but she threw off her scarf, and let it fall on 
the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know 
how it was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a 
short time, and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had 
delivered Totty to her mother’s arms, and was come up-stairs 
to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty’s. 

Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the 
second story of that tall house, it gave her a wide view over 
the fields. The thickness of the wall formed a broad step 
about a yard below the window, where she could place her 
chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her room, 
was to seat herself in this chair, and look out on the peaceful 
fields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the 
hedgerow elms. She liked the pasture best where the milch 
cows were lying, and next to that the meadow where the grass 
was half mown, and lay in silvered sweeping lines. Her heart 
was very full, for there was to be only one more night on 
which she would look out on those fields for a long time to 
Hol. j. 


162 


ADAM BEDE. 


come ; but she thought little of leaving the mere scene, for, 
to her, bleak Snowfield had just as many charms : she thought 
of all the dear people whom she had learned to care for among 
these peaceful fields, and who would now have a place in her 
loving remembrance forever. She thought of the struggles 
and the weariness that might lie before them in the rest of 
their life’s journey, when she would be away from them, and 
know nothing of what was befalling them ; and the pressure 
of this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the 
unresponding stillness of the moonlit fields. She closed her 
eyes, that she might feel more intensely the presence of a 
Love and Sympathy deeper and more tender than was breathed 
from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah’s mode of 
praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes, and to feel 
herself enclosed by the Divine Presence ; then gradually her 
fears, her yearning anxieties for others, melted away like ice* 
crystals in a warm ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly 
still, with her hands crossed on her lap, and the pale light 
resting on her calm face, for at least ten minutes, when she 
was startled by a loud sound, apparently of something falling 
in Hetty’s room. But like all sounds that fall on our ears in 
a state of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was 
simply loud and startling, so that she felt uncertain whether 
she had interpreted it rightly. She rose and listened, but all 
was quiet afterwards, and . she reflected that Hetty might 
merely have knocked something down in getting into bed. 
She began slowly to undress ; but now, owing to the sugges- 
tions of this sound, her thoughts became concentrated on 
Hetty: that sweet young thing, with life and all its trials 
before her — the solemn daily duties of the wife and mother 
— and her mind so unprepared for them all ; bent merely on 
little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child hugging its toys 
in the beginning of a long toilsome journey, in which it will 
have to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. 
Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, because she shared Seth’s 
anxious interest in his brother’s lot, and she had not come 
to the conclusion that Hetty did not love Adam well enough 
to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of any warm. 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS 


163 


self-devoting love in Hetty’s nature, to regard tlie coldness of 
lier behavior towards Adam as any indication that he was not 
the man she would like to have for a husband. And this 
blank in Hetty’s nature, instead of exciting Dinah’s dislike, 
only touched her with a deeper pity : the lovely face and form 
affected her as beauty always affects a pure and tender mind, 
free from selfish jealousies : it was an excellent divine gift, 
that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow with 
which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is 
more grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb. 

By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, 
this feeling about Hetty had gathered a painful intensity ; her 
imagination had created a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in 
which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and bleeding, 
looking with tears for rescue and finding none. It was in this 
way that Dinah’s imagination and sympathy acted and reacted 
habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a deep long- 
ing to go now and pour into Hetty’s ear all the words of tender 
warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps 
Hetty was already asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition, 
and heard still some slight noises, which convinced her that 
Hetty was not yet in bed. Still she hesitated ; she was not 
quite certain of a divine direction ; the voice that told her to 
go to Hetty seemed no stronger than the other voice which 
said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an 
unseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more 
obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmis* 
takable guidance than those inward voices. There was light 
enough for her, if she opened her Bible, to discern the text 
sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She knew the 
physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she 
opened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or 
number. It was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the 
edges. Dinah laid it sideways on the window ledge, where 
the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinger. 
The first words she looked at were those at the top of the left- 
hand page : “ And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul’s neck 
and kissed him.” That was enough for Dinah j she had 


164 


ADAM BEDE. 


opened on that memorable parting at Ephesus, when Paul had 
felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and warning. 
She hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, 
went and tapped at Hetty’s. We know she had to tap twice, 
because Hetty had to put out her candles and throw off her 
black lace scarf; but after the second tap the door was opened 
immediately. Dinah said, “ Will you let me come in, Hetty? ” 
and Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, 
opened the door wider and let her in. 

What a strange contrast the two figures made ! Visible 
enough in that mingled twilight and moonlight. Hetty, her 
cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening from her imaginary 
drama, her beautiful, neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in 
a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears. 
Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full 
of subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which 
the soul has returned charged with sublimer secrets and a 
sublimer love. They were nearly of the same height ; Dinah 
evidently a little the taller as she put her arm round Hetty’s 
waist, and kissed her forehead. 

“I knew you were not in bed, my dear,” she said, in her 
sweet clear voice, which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with 
her own peevish vexation like music with jangling chains, “ for 
I heard you moving ; and I longed to speak to you again to* 
night, for it is the last but one that I shall be here, and we 
don’t know what may happen to-morrow to keep us apart 
Shall T sit down with you while you do up your hair ? ” 

“ Oh yes,” said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching 
the second chair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she 
did not notice her earrings, 

Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her 
hair before twisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive 
indifference which belongs to confused self-consciousness. But 
the expression of Dinah’s eyes gradually relieved her; they 
seemed unobservant of all details. 

6 Dear Hetty,” she said, “ it has been borne in upon my mind 
to-night that you may some day be in trouble •— trouble is ap- 
pointed for us all here below, and there comes a time when we 


THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 


165 


need more comfort and help than the things of this life can 
give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in trouble, and 
need a friend that will always feel for you and love you, you 
have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield ; and if you 
come to her, or send for her, she T1 never forget this night and 
the words she is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, 
Hetty ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Hetty, rather frightened. “ But why should you 
think I shall be in trouble ? Do you know of anything ? ” 

Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now 
Dinah leaned forwards and took her hands as she answered — 

“ Because, dear, trouble comes to us all in this life : we set 
our hearts on things which it is n’t God’s will for us to have, 
and then we go sorrowing ; the people we love are taken from 
us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with us ; 
sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble 
bodies ; we go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into 
trouble with our fellow-men. There is no man or woman born 
into this world to whom some of these trials do not fall, and so 
I feel that some of them must happen to you ; and I desire 
for you, that while you are young you should seek for strength 
from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support 
which will not fail you in the evil day.” 

Dinah paused and released Hetty’s hands that she might not 
hinder her. Hetty sat quite still ; she felt no response with- 
in herself to Dinah’s anxious affection ; but Dinah’s words, 
uttered with solemn pathetic distinctness, affected her with a 
chill fear. Her flush had died away almost to paleness ; she 
had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seeking nature, which 
shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and her 
tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, 
full of a vague fear that something evil was some time to be- 
fall her, began to cry. 

It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never 
understand the higher, the higher nature commands a com- 
plete view of the lower. But I think the higher nature has 
to learn this comprehension, as we learn the art of vision, by 
a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and gashes 


166 


ADAM BEDE. 


incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying 
our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty af- 
fected in this way before, and, with her usual benignant hope- 
fulness, she trusted it was the stirring of a divine impulse. 
She kissed the sobbing thing, and began to cry with her for 
grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that excitable state of 
mind in which there is no calculating what turn the feelings may 
take from one moment to another, and for the first time she 
became irritated under Dinah’s caress. She pushed her away 
impatiently, and said, with a childish sobbing voice — 

“ Don’t talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you come to frighten 
me ? I ’ve never done anything to you. Why can’t you let 
me be ? ” 

Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and 
only said mildly, “Yes, my dear, you ’re tired; I won’t hinder 
you any longer. Make haste and get into bed. Good-night.” 

She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as 
if she had been a ghost ; but once by the side of her own bed, 
she threw herself on her knees, and poured out in deep silence 
all the passionate pity that filled her heart. 

As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again — her waking 
dreams being merged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmen- 
tary and confused. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

LIHKS. 

Arthur DoHNiTHORifE, you remember, is under an engage- 
ment with himself to go and see Mr. Irwine this Friday morn- 
ing, and he is awake and dressing so early, that he determines 
to go before breakfast, instead of after. The Rector, he knows, 
breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the ladies of the family 
having a different breakfast hour; Arthur will have an early 
ride over the hill and breakfast with him. One can say every 
thing best over a meal. 


LINKS. 


167 


Tne progress of civilization has made a breakfast or a din- 
Per an easy and cheerful substitute for more troublesome and 
disagreeable ceremonies. We take a less gloomy view of our 
errors now our father confessor listens to us over his egg and 
coffee. We are more distinctly conscious that rude penances 
are out of the question for gentlemen in an enlightened age, 
and that mortal sin is not incompatible with an appetite for 
muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in more barbarous 
times would have been made in the brusque form of a pistol- 
shot, is quite a well-bred and smiling procedure now it has 
become a request for a loan thrown in as an easy parenthesis 
between the second and third glasses of claret. 

Still, there was this advantage in the old rigid forms, that 
they committed you to the fulfilment of a resolution by some 
outward deed : when you have put your mouth to one end of 
a hole in a stone wall, and are aware that there is an expectant 
ear at the other end, you are more likely to say what you came 
out with the intention of saying, than if you were seated with 
your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany, with a com- 
panion who will have no reason to be surprised if you have 
nothing particular to say. 

However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleas- 
ant lanes on horseback in the morning sunshine, has a sincere 
determination to open his heart to the Hector, and the swirling 
sound of the scythe as he passes by the meadow is all the 
pleasanter to him because of this honest purpose. He is glad 
to see the promise of settled weather now, for getting in the 
hay, about which the farmers have been fearful; and there is 
something so healthful in the sharing of a joy that is general 
and not merely personal, that this thought about the hay 
harvest reacts on his state of mind, and makes his resolution 
seem an easier matter. A man about town might perhaps 
consider that these influences were not to be felt out of a 
child’s story-book ; but when you are among the fields and 
hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority 
to simple natural pleasures. 

Arthur had passed the village of Hayslope, and was approach- 
ing the Broxton side of the hill, when, at a turning in the road. 


168 


ADAM BEDE. 


he saw a figure about a hundred yards before him which it was 
impossible to mistake for any one else than Adam Bede, even 
if there had been no gray, tailless shepherd-dog at his heels. 
He was striding along at his usual rapid pace ; and Arthur 
pushed on his horse to overtake him, for he retained too much 
of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an opportunity of chat 
ting with him. I will not say that his love for that good fellow 
did not owe some of its force to the love of patronage : our 
friend Arthur liked to do everything that was handsome; and 
to have his handsome deeds recognized. 

Adam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter of 
the horse’s heels, and waited for the horseman, lifting his 
paper cap from his head with a bright smile of recognition. 
Next to his own brother Seth, Adam would have done more 
for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young man in the 
world. There was hardly anything he would not rather have 
lost than the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his 
pocket ; it was Arthur’s present, bought with his pocket-money 
when he was a fair-haired lad of eleven, and when he had 
profited so well by Adam’s lessons in carpentering and turning, 
as to embarrass every female in the house with gifts of super- 
fluous thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite a pride 
in the little squire in those early days, and the feeling had 
only become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had grown 
into the whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was very 
susceptible to the influence of rank, and quite ready to give an 
extra amount of respect to every one who had more advantages 
than himself, not being a philosopher, or a proletaire with 
democratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clever carpenter 
with a large fund of reverence in his nature, which inclined 
him to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear 
grounds for questioning them. He had no theories about set- 
ting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of 
damage done by building with ill-seasoned timber — by igno- 
rant men in fine clothes making plans for outhouses and work- 
shops and the like, without knowing the bearings of things — 
by slovenly joiners’ work, and by hasty contracts that could 
never be fulfilled without ruining somebody ; and he resolved, 


LINKS. 


169 


for his part, to set his face against such doings. On these 
points he would have maintained his opinion against the 
largest landed proprietor in Loamshire or Stonyshire either ; 
but he felt that beyond these it would be better for him to 
defer to people who were more knowing than himself. He 
saw as plainly as possible how ill the woods on the estate were 
managed, and the shameful state of the farm-buildings ; and if 
old Squire Donnithorne had asked him the effect of this mis- 
management, he would have spoken his opinion without flinch- 
ing, but the impulse to * respectful demeanor towards a 
“ gentleman ” would have been strong within him all the while. 
The word “ gentleman ” had a spell for Adam, and, as he often 
said, he “ could n’t abide a fellow who thought he made him- 
self fine by being coxy to ’s betters.” I must remind you 
again that Adam had the blood of the 'peasant in his veins, 
and that since he was in his prime half a century ago, you 
must expect some of his characteristics to be obsolete. 

Towards the young squire this instinctive reverence of 
Adam’s was assisted by boyish memories and personal regard ; 
so you may imagine that he thought far more of Arthur’s good 
qualities, and attached far more value to very slight actions of 
his, than if they had been the qualities and actions of a common 
workman like himself. He felt sure it would be a fine day for 
everybody about Hayslope when the young squire came into 
the estate — such a generous open-hearted disposition as he 
had, and an “ uncommon” notion about improvements and 
repairs, considering he was only just coming of age. Thus 
there was both respect and affection in the smile with which 
he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne rode up. 

“ Well, Adam, how are you ? ” said Arthur, holding out his 
hand. He never shook hands with any of the farmers, and 
Adam felt the honor keenly. “ I could swear to your back a 
long way off. It ’s just the same back, only broader, as when 
you used to carry me on it. Do you remember ? ” 

“Ay, sir, I remember. It ’ud be a poor look-out if folks 
did n’t remember what they did and said when they were lads. 
We should think no more about old friends than we do about 
new uns, then.” 


170 


ADAM BEDE. 


“You’re going to Broxton, I suppose?” said Arthur, put* 
ting his horse on at a slow pace while Adam walked by his 
side. “Are you going to the Eectory ? ” 

“ No, sir, 1 ’m going to see about Bradwell’s barn. They ’re 
afraid of the roof pushing the walls out ; and I ’m going to see 
what can be done with it before we send the stuff and the 
workmen.” 

“Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, 
does n’t he ? I should think he will make you his partner soon. 
He will, if he ’s wise.” 

“Nay, sir, I don’t see as he ’d be much the better off for that. 
A foreman, if he’s got a conscience, and delights in his work, 
will do his business as well as if he was a partner. I would n’t 
give a penny for a man as ’ud drive a nail in slack because he 
did n’t get extra pay for it.” 

“ I know that, Adam ; I know you work for him as well as 
if you were working for yourself. But you would have more 
power than you have now, and could turn the business to better 
account perhaps. The old man must give up his business some 
time, and he has no son ; I suppose he ’ll want a son-in-law 
who can take to it. But he has rather grasping fingers of his 
own, I fancy : I dare say he wants a man who can put some 
money into the business. If I were not as poor as a rat, I 
would gladly invest some money in that way, for the sake of 
having you settled on the estate. I ’m sure I should profit by 
it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off in a year or 
two. I shall have a larger allowance now I ’m of age ; and 
when I ’ve paid off a debt or two, I shall be able to look about 
me.” 

“ You ’re very good to say so, sir, and I ’m not unthankful. 
But ” — Adam continued, in a decided tone — “I should n’t 
like to make any offers to Mr. Burge, or t’ have any made for 
me. I see no clear road to a partnership. If he should ever 
want to dispose of the business, that ’ud be a different matter 
I should be glad of some money at a fair interest then, for I 
feel sure I could pay it off in time.” 

“Very well, Adam,” said Arthur, remembering whkt Mr. 
Trwine had said about a probable hitch in the love-making 


LINKS. 171 

between Adam and Mary Burge, 4 4 we *11 say no more about it 
at present. When is your father to be buried ? ” 

44 On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine’s coming earlier on purpose. 
I shall be glad when it ’s over, for I think my mother ’ull perhaps 
get easier then. It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old people ; 
they ’ve no way o’ working it off; and the new spring brings 
no new shoots out on the withered tree.” 

44 Ah, you Ve had a good deal of trouble and vexation in your 
life, Adam. I don’t think you ’ve ever been harebrained and 
light-hearted, like other youngsters. You ’ve always had some 
care on your mind.” 

44 Why, yes, sir; but that’s nothing to make a fuss about. 
If we ’re men, and have men’s feelings, I reckon we must have 
men’s troubles. We can’t be like the birds, as fly from their 
nest as soon as they ’ve got their wings, and never know their 
kin when they see ’em, and get a fresh lot every year. I ’ve 
had enough to be thankful for : I ’ve allays had health and 
strength and brains to give me a delight in my work; and 
I count it a great thing as I ’ve had Bartle Massey’s night- 
school to go to. He ’s helped me to knowledge I could never 
ha’ got by myself.” 

44 What a rare fellow you are, Adam!” said Arthur, after a 
pause, in which he had looked musingly at the big fellow walk- 
ing by his side. 44 1 could hit out better than most men at 
Oxford, and yet I believe you would knock me into next week 
if I were to have a battle with you.” 

44 God forbid I should ever do that, sir,” said Adam, look- 
ing round at Arthur, and smiling. 4 4 1 used to fight for fun ; but 
I ’ve never done that since I was the cause o’ poor Gil Tranter 
being laid up for a fortnight. I ’ll never fight any man again, 
only when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of a 
chap that ’s got no shame nor conscience to stop him, you must 
try what you can do by bunging his eyes up.” 

Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some 
thought that made him say presently — 

44 1 should think now, Adam, you never have any struggles 
within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you 
had made up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as 


172 


ADAM BEDE. 


easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow wlio was 
quarrelsome with. you. I mean, you are never shilly-shally, 
first making up your mind that you won’t do a thing, and then 
doing it after all ? ” 

“Well,” said Adam, slowly, after a moment’s hesitation — 

no. I don’t remember ever being see-saw in that way, when 
I ’d made my mind up, as you say, that a thing was wrong. 
It takes the taste out o’ my mouth for things, when I know I 
should have a heavy conscience after ’em. I ’ve seen pretty clear 
ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never do what ’s 
wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can ever 
see. It ’s like a bit o’ bad workmanship — you never see th’ end 
o’ the mischief it ’ll do. And it ’s a poor look-out to come into 
the world to make your fellow-creatures worse off instead o’ 
better. But there ’s a difference between the things folks call 
wrong. I ’m not for making a sin of every little fool’s trick, 
or bit o’ nonsense anybody may be let into, like some o’ them 
dissenters. And a man may have two minds whether it is n’t 
worth while to get a bruise or two for the sake of a bit o’ fun. 
But it is n’t my way to be see-saw about anything : I think my 
fault lies th’ other way. When I ’ve said a thing, if it ’s only to 
myself, it ’s hard for me to go back.” 

“Yes, that’s just what I expected of you,” said Arthur. 
“You’ve got an iron will, as well as an iron arm. But how- 
ever strong a man’s resolution may be, it costs him something 
to carry it out, now and then. We may determine not to gather 
any cherries, and keep our hands sturdily in our pockets, but 
we can’t prevent our mouths from watering.” 

“ That ’s true, sir ; but there ’s nothing like settling with our- 
selves as there ’s a deal we must do without i’ this life. It ’s 
no use looking on life as if it was Treddles’on fair, where folks 
only go to see shows and get fairings. If we do, we shall find 
it different. But where ’s the use o’ me talking to you, sir ? 
You know better than I do.” 

“ I ’m not so sure of that, Adam. You ’ve had four or five 
years of experience more than I ’ve had, and I think your 
life has been a better school to vou than college has been 
to me.” 


LINKS. 


1T3 


“ Why, sir, yon seem to think o’ college something like what 
Bartle Massey does. He says college mostly makes people 
like bladders — just good for nothing but t’ hold the stuff as 
is poured into ’em. But he ’s got a tongue like a sharp blade, 
Bartle has : it never touches anything but it cuts. Here ’s the 
turning, sir. I must bid you good-morning, as you ’re going to 
the Rectory.” 

“ Good-by, Adam, good-by.” 

Arthur gave his horse to the groom at the Rectory gate, and 
walked along the gravel towards the door which opened on the 
garden. He knew that the Rector always breakfasted in his 
study, and the study lay on the left hand of this door, opposite 
the dining-room. It was a small low room, belonging to the 
old part of the house — dark with the sombre covers of the 
books that lined the walls ; yet it looked very cheery this 
morning as Arthur reached the open window. For the morn- 
ing sun fell aslant on the great glass globe with gold-fish in it, 
which stood on a scagliola pillar in front of the ready-spread 
bachelor breakfast-table, and by the side of this breakfast-table 
was a group which would have made any room enticing. In 
the crimson damask easy-chair sat Mr. Irwine, with that radiant 
freshness which he always had when he came from his morn- 
ing toilet ; his finely formed plump white hand was playing 
along Juno’s brown curly back ; and close to Juno’s tail, which 
was wagging with calm matronly pleasure, the two brown pups 
were rolling over each other in an ecstatic duet of worrying 
noises. On a cushion a little removed sat Pug, with the air 
of a maiden lady, who looked on these familiarities as animal 
weaknesses, which she made as little show as possible of 
observing. On the table, at Mr. Irwine’s elbow, lay the first 
volume of the Foulis iEschylus, which Arthur knew well by 
sight ; and the silver coffee-pot, which Carroll was bringing in, 
sent forth a fragrant steam which completed the delights of a 
bachelor breakfast. 

“ Hallo, Arthur, that ’s a good fellow ! You ’re just in time,” 
said Mr. Irwine, as Arthur paused and stepped in over the low 
window-sill. “Carroll, we shall want more coffee and eggs, 
and have n’t you got some cold fowl for us to eat with that 


174 


ADAM BEDE. 


ham ? Why, this is like old days, Arthur ; you have n't been 
to breakfast with me these five years." 

“ It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast," 
said Arthur; “and I used to like breakfasting with you so 
when I was reading with you. My grandfather is always 
a few degrees colder at breakfast than at any other hour 
in the day. I think his. morning bath does n’t agree with 
him." 

Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any 
special purpose. He had no sooner found himself in Mr. 
Irwine’s presence than the confidence which he had thought 
quite easy before, suddenly appeared the most difficult thing 
in the world to him, and at the very moment of shaking hands 
he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How could he make 
Irwine understand his position unless he told him those little 
scenes in the wood ; and how could he tell them without look- 
ing like a fool ? And then his weakness in coming back from 
Gawaine’s, and doing the very opposite of what he intended ! 
Irwine would think him a shilly-shally fellow ever after. 
However, it must come out in an unpremeditated way ; the 
conversation might lead up to it. 

“ I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the 
day," said Mr. Irwine. “ Ho dust has settled on one’s mind 
then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things. I 
always have a favorite book by me at breakfast, and I enjoy 
the bits I pick up then so much, that regularly every morning 
it seems to me as if I should certainly become studious again. 
But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who has killed 
a hare, and when I ’ve got through my ( justicing,’ as Carroll 
calls it, I ’m inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my 
way back I meet with the master of the workhouse, who has 
got a long story of a mutinous pauper to tell me ; and so the 
day goes on, and I’m always the same lazy fellow before 
evening sets in. Besides, one wants the stimulus of sympa- 
thy, and I have never had that since poor D’Oyley left Tred 
dleston. If you had stuck to your books well, you rascal, I 
should have had a pleasanter prospect before me. But scholar- 
ship does n’t run in your family blood." 


LINKS. 175 

“ No indeed. It ’s well if I can remember a little inapplicable 
Latin to adorn my maiden speech in Parliament six or seven 
years hence. ‘Gras ingens iterabimus aequor,’ and a few shreds 
of that sort, will perhaps stick to me, and I shall arrange my 
opinions so as to introduce them. But I don’t think a knowl- 
edge of the classics is a pressing want to a country gentleman ; 
as far as I can see, he’d much better have a knowledge of 
manures. I ’ve been reading your friend Arthur Young’s books 
lately, and there ’s nothing I should like better than to carry 
out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a better man- 
agement of their land ; and, as he says, making what was a 
wild country, all of the same dark hue, bright and variegated 
with corn and cattle. My grandfather will never let me have 
any power while he lives ; but there ’s nothing I should like 
better than to undertake the Stony shire side of the estate — 
it’s in a dismal condition — and set improvements on foot, and 
gallop about from one place to another and overlook them. I 
should like to know all the laborers, and see them touching 
their hats to me with a look of goodwill.” 

“ Bravo, Arthur ! a man who has no feeling for the classics 
couldn’t make a better apology for coming into the world than 
by increasing the quantity of food to maintain scholars — and 
rectors who appreciate scholars. And whenever you enter on 
your career of model landlord may I be there to see. You ’ll 
want a portly rector to complete the picture, and take his tithe 
of all the respect and honor you get by your hard work. Only 
don’t set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are to 
get in consequence. I ’m not sure that men are the fondest of 
those who try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has 
got the curses of the whole neighborhood upon him about that 
enclosure. You must make it quite clear to your mind which 
you are most bent upon, old boy — popularity or usefulness — 
else you may happen to miss both.” 

V Oh ! Gawaine is harsh in his manners ; he does n’t make 
himself personally agreeable to his tenants. I don’t believe 
there ’s anything you can’t prevail on people to do with kind- 
ness. For my part, I could n’t live in a neighborhood where 
I was not respected and beloved ; and it’s very pleasant to go 


176 


ADAM BEDE. 


among the tenants here, they seem all so well inclined to me. 1 
suppose it seems only the other day to them since I was a 
little lad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if 
fair allowances were made to them, and their buildings at- 
tended to, one could persuade them to farm on a better plan, 
stupid as they are.” 

Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don’t 
get a wife who will drain your purse and make you niggardly 
in spite of yourself. My mother and I have a little discussion 
about you sometimes: she says, ‘I’ll never risk a single 
prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he falls in love 
with.’ She thinks your lady-love will rule you as the moon 
rules the tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as 
my pupil, you know ; and I maintain that you ’re not of 
that watery quality. So mind you don’t disgrace my judg- 
ment.” 

Arthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine’s 
opinion about him had the disagreeable effect of a sinister 
omen. This, to be sure, was only another reason for persever- 
ing in his intention, and getting an additional security against 
himself. Nevertheless, at this point in the conversation, he 
was conscious of increased disinclination to tell his story about 
Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and lived a great 
deal in other people’s opinions and feelings concerning him- 
self ; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of an in- 
timate friend, who had not the slightest notion that he had 
had any such serious internal struggle as he came to confide, 
rather shook his own belief in the seriousness of the struggle. 
It was not, after all, a thing to make a fuss about ; and what 
could Irwine do for him that he could not do for himself? 
He would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg’s lameness — go on 
Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on the old hack. 
That was his thought as he sugared his coffee ; but the next 
minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he remembered 
how thoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell 
Irwine. No! he would not be vacillating again — he would 
do what he had meant to do, this time. So it would be well 
not to let the personal tone of the conversation altogether 


LINKS. 


177 


drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics, his difficulty 
would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause for 
this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered — 

“ But I think it is hardly an argument against a man’s gen 
eral strength of character, that he should be apt to be mas- 
tered by love. A fine constitution does n’t insure one against 
small-pox or any other of those inevitable diseases. A man 
may be very firm in other matters, and yet be under a sort of 
witchery from a woman.” 

“ Yes ; but there ’s this difference between love and small- 
pox, or bewitchment either — that if you detect the disease at 
an early stage, and try change of air, there is every chance of 
complete escape without any further development of symp- 
toms. And there are certain alterative doses which a man 
may administer to himself by keeping unpleasant consequences 
before his mind • this gives you a sort of smoked glass through 
which you may look at the resplendent fair one and discern 
her true outline ; though I ’m afraid, by the bye, the smoked 
glass is apt to be missing just at the moment it is most 
wanted. I dare say, now, even a man fortified with a knowl- 
edge of the classics might be lured into an imprudent mar- 
riage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in the 
Prometheus.” 

The smile that flitted across Arthur’s face was a faint one, 
and instead of following Mr. Irwine’s playful lead, he said, 
quite seriously — “ Yes, that ’s the worst of it. It ’s a des- 
perately vexatious thing, that after all one’s reflections and 
quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one 
can’t calculate on beforehand. I don’t think a man ought to 
be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that 
way, in spite of his resolutions.” 

“ Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much 
as his reflections did, and more. A man can never do any- 
thing at variance with his own nature. He carries within 
him the germ of his most exceptional action ; and if we wise 
people make eminent fools of ourselves on any particular oc- 
casion, we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we 
carry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom.” 

VOL. X. 


178 


ADAM BEDE. 


"Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a 
combination of circumstances, which one might never have 
done otherwise.” 

“ Why, yes, a man can’t very well steal a bank-note unless 
the bank-note lies within convenient reach ; but he won’t 
make us think him an honest man because he begins to howl 
at the bank-note for falling in his way.” 

“But surely you don’t think a man who struggles against a 
temptation into which he falls at last, as bad as the man who 
never struggles at all ? ” 

“No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, 
for they foreshadow the inward suffering which is the worst 
form of Nemesis. Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds 
carry their terrible consequences, quite apart from any fluc- 
tuations that went before — consequences that are hardly 
ever confined to ourselves. And it is best to fix our minds 
on that certainty, instead of considering what may be the 
elements of excuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined 
for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your 
own that you are considering in this philosophical, general 
way ? ” 

In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, 
threw himself back in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. 
He really suspected that Arthur wanted to tell him something, 
and thought of smoothing the way for him by this direct ques- 
tion. But he was mistaken. Brought suddenly and involun- 
tarily to the brink of confession, Arthur shrank back, and felt 
less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation had 
taken a more serious tone than he had intended — it would 
quite mislead Irwine — he would imagine there was a deep 
passion for Hetty, while there was no such thing. He was 
conscious of coloring, and was annoyed at his boyishness. 

“Oh no, no danger,” he said as indifferently as he could. 
“ I don’t know that I am more liable to irresolution than other 
people ; only there are little incidents now and then that set 
one speculating on what might happen in the future.” 

Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance of 
Arthur’s which had a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted 


LINKS. 


179 


to himself ? Our mental business is carried on much in the 
same way as the business of the State : a great deal of hard 
work is done by agents who are not acknowledged. In a piecft 
of machinery, too, I believe there is often a small unnoticeable 
wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion of the large 
obvious ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognized 
agent secretly busy in Arthur’s mind at this moment — possi 
bly it was the fear lest he might hereafter find the fact of hav- 
ing made a confession to the Sector a serious annoyance, in 
case he should not be able quite to carry out his good resolu. 
tions ? I dare not assert that it was not so. The human sou] 
is a very complex thing. 

The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine’s mind as he 
looked inquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming indifferent 
answer confirmed the thought which had quickly followed — 
that there could be nothing serious in. that direction. There 
was no probability that Arthur ever saw her except at church, 
and at her own home under the eye of Mrs. Poyser ; and the 
hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no more 
serious meaning than to prevent him from noticing her so as 
to rouse the little chit’s vanity, and in this way perturb the 
rustic drama of her life. Arthur would soon join his regiment, 
and be far away : no, there could be no danger in that quarter, 
even if Arthur’s character had not been a strong security against 
it. His honest, patronizing pride in the goodwill and respect 
of everybody about him was a safeguard even against foolish 
romance, still more against a lower kind of folly. If there had 
been anything special on Arthur’s mind in the previous con- 
versation, it was clear he was not inclined to enter into details, 
and Mr. Irwine was too delicate to imply even a friendly curi- 
osity. He perceived a change of subject would be welcome, 
and said — 

“ By the way, Arthur, at your colonel’s birthday fete there 
were some transparencies that made a great effect in honor of 
Britannia, and Pitt, and the Loamshire Militia, and above all, 
the 1 generous youth,’ the hero of the day. Don’t you think 
you should get up something of the same sort to astonish our 
Veak minds ? ” 


180 


ADAM BEDE. 


The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating, 
the rope to which he might have clung had drifted away — he 
must trust now to his own swimming. 

In ten minutes from that time, Mr. Irwine was called for on 
business, and Arthur, bidding him good-by, mounted his horse 
again with a sense of dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell 
by determining to set off for Eagledale without an hour’s 
delay. 


IIayslopp: Church, (Ellaston). 








BOOK II. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES A LITTLB. 

* This Rector of Broxton is little better than a pagan ! ” I 
hear one of my readers exclaim. “ How much more edifying 
it would have been if you had made him give Arthur some 
truly spiritual advice ! You might have put into his mouth 
the most beautiful things — quite as good as reading a 
sermon.” 

Certainly I could, if I held it the highest vocation of the 
novelist to represent things as they never have been and never 
will be. Then, of course, I might refashion life and character 
entirely after my own liking; I might select the most un- 
exceptionable type of clergyman, and put my own admirable 
opinions into his mouth on all occasions. But it happens, on 
the contrary, that my strongest effort is to avoid any such arbi- 
trary picture, and to give a faithful account of men and things 
as tney have mirrored themselves in my mind. The mirror is 
ioubtless defective ; the outlines will sometimes be disturbed, 
:he reflection faint or confused ; but I feel as much bound to 
tell you as precisely as I can what that reflection is, as if I 
were in the witness-box narrating my experience on oath. 

Sixty years ago — it is a long time, so no wonder things 
have changed — all clergymen were not zealous ; indeed there 
is reason to believe that the number of zealous clergymen was 
small, and it is probable that if one among the small minority 
had owned the livings of Broxton and Hayslope in the year 
1799, you would have liked him no better than you like Mr. 
Irwine. Ten to one, you would have thought him a tasteless. 


182 


ADAM BEDE. 


indiscreet, methodistical man. It is so very rarely that facts 
hit that nice medium required by our own enlightened opinions 
and refined taste ! Perhaps you will say, “ Do improve the 
facts a little, then; make them more accordant with those 
correct views which it is our privilege to possess. The world 
is not just what we like ; do touch it up with a tasteful pencil, 
and make believe it is not quite such a mixed entangled affair. 
Let all people who hold unexceptionable opinions act unexcep- 
tionably. Let your most faulty characters always be on the 
wrong side, and your virtuous ones on the right. Then we 
shall see at a glance whom we are to condemn, and whom we 
are to approve. Then we shall be able to admire, without the 
slightest disturbance of our prepossessions : we shall hate and 
despise with that true ruminant relish which belongs to un- 
doubting confidence.” 

But, my good friend, what will you do then with your fellow- 
parishioner who opposes your husband in the vestry ? — with 
your newly appointed vicar, whose style of preaching you find 
painfully below that of his regretted predecessor ? — with the 
honest servant who worries your soul with her one failing ? — 
with your neighbor, Mrs. Green, who was really kind to you 
in your last illness, but has said several ill-natured things 
about you since your convalescence ? — nay, with your excel- 
lent husband himself, who has other irritating habits besides 
that of not wiping his shoes ? These fellow-mortals, every 
one, must be accepted as they are : you can neither straighten 
their noses, nor brighten their wit, nor rectify their disposb 
tions ; and it is these people — amongst whom your life is 
passed — that it is needful you should tolerate, pity, and love : 
it is these more or less ugly, stupid, inconsistent people, whose 
movements of goodness you should be able to admire — for 
whom you should cherish all possible hopes, all possible pa- 
tience. And I would not, even if I had the choice, be the 
clever novelist who could create a world so much better than 
this, in which we get up in the morning to do our daily work, 
that you would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on the 
dusty streets and the common green fields — on the real breath- 
ing men and women, who can be chilled by your indifference 


IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES A LITTLE. 183 


or injured by your prejudice ; who can be cheered and helped 
onward by your fellow-feeling, your forbearance, your out- 
spoken, brave justice. 

So I am content to tell my simple story, without trying to 
make things seem better than they were; dreading nothing, 
indeed, but falsity, which, in spite of one’s best efforts, there 
is reason to dread. Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. 
The pencil is conscious of a delightful facility in drawing a 
griffin — the longer the claws, and the larger the wings, the 
better ; but that marvellous facility which v/e mistook for 
genius is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a real un- 
exaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find 
that even when you have no motive to be false, it is a very 
hard thing to say the exact truth, even about your own imme- 
diate feelings — much harder than to say something fine about 
them which is not the exact truth. 

It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I 
delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people 
despise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faith- 
ful pictures of a monotonous homely existence, which has been 
the fate of so many more among my fellow-mortals than a life 
of pomp or of absolute indigence, of tragic suffering or of 
world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, from cloud- 
borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an 
old woman bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary 
dinner, while the noonday light, softened perhaps by a screen 
of leaves, falls on her mob-cap, and just touches the rim of her 
spinning-wheel, and her stone jug, and all those cheap common 
things which are the precious necessaries of life to her ; — or 
I turn to that village wedding, kept between four brown walls, 
where an awkward bridegroom opens the dance with a high- 
shouldered, broad-faced bride, while elderly and middle-aged 
friends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and probably 
with quart-pots in their hands, but with an expression of unmis- 
takable contentment and goodwill. “ Foh ! ” says my idealistic 
friend, “ what vulgar details ! What good is there in taking all 
these pains to give an exact likeness of old women and clowns ? 
What a low phase of life ! — what clumsy, ugly people ! ” 


184 


ADAM BEDE. 


But bless us, tilings may be lovable that are not altogether 
handsome, I hope ? I am not at all sure that the majority of 
the human race have not been ugly, and even among those 
“ lords of their kind,” the British, squat figures, ill-shapen nos- 
trils, and dingy complexions are not startling exceptions. Yet 
there is a great deal of family love amongst us. I have a 
friend or two whose class of features is such that the Apollo 
curl on the summit of their brows would be decidedly trying ; 
yet to my certain knowledge tender hearts have beaten for 
them, and their miniatures — flattering, but still not lovely — 
are kissed in secret by motherly lips. I have seen many an 
excellent matron, who could never in her best days have been 
handsome, and yet she had a packet of yellow love-letters in 
a private drawer, and sweet children showered kisses on her 
sallow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty of young 
heroes, of middle stature and feeble beards, who have felt quite 
sure they could never love anything more insignificant than a 
Diana, and yet have found themselves in middle life happily 
settled with a wife who waddles. Yes ! thank God ; human 
feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth : it does 
not wait for beauty — it flows with resistless force and brings 
beauty with it. 

All honor and reverence to the divine beauty of form ! Let 
us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and children — in 
our gardens and in our houses. But let us love that other 
beauty too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but in the secret 
of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with 
a floating violet robe, and a face paled by the celestial light ; 
paint us yet oftener a Madonna, turning her mild face upward 
and opening her arms to welcome the divine glory ; but do not 
impose on us any aesthetic rules which shall banish from the 
region of Art those old women scraping carrots with their 
work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy 
pot-house, those rounded backs and stupid weather-beaten fae<fs 
that have bent over the spade and done the rough work of the 
world — those homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers, 
their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. In this world 
there are so many of these common coarse people, who have 


IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES A LITTLE. 185 


no picturesque sentimental wretchedness ! It is so needful we 
should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave 
them quite out of our religion and philosophy, and frame lofty 
theories which only fit a worM of extremes. Therefore let Art 
always remind us of them ; therefore let us always have men 
ready to give the loving pains of a life to the faithful represent- 
ing of commonplace things — men who see beauty in these com- 
monplace things, and delight in showing how kindly the light 
of heaven falls on them. There are few prophets in the world ; 
few sublimely beautiful women ; few heroes. I can’t afford to 
give all my love and reverence to such rarities : I want a great 
deal of those feelings for my every-day fellow-men, especially 
for the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose 
faces I know, whose hands I touch, for whom I have to make 
way with kindly courtesy. Neither are picturesque lazzaroni 
or romantic criminals half so frequent as your common laborer, 
who gets his own bread, and eats it vulgarly but creditably 
with his own pocket-knife. It is more needful that I should 
have a fibre of sympathy connecting me with that vulgar citi- 
zen who weighs out my sugar in a vilely assorted cravat and 
waistcoat, than with the handsomest rascal in red scarf and 
green feathers ; — more needful that my heart should swell 
with loving admiration at some trait of gentle goodness in the 
faulty people who sit at the same hearth with me, or in the 
clergyman of my own parish, who is perhaps rather too corpu- 
lent, and in other respects is not an Oberlin or a Tillotson, than 
at the deeds of heroes whom I shall never know except by 
hearsay, or at the sublimest abstract of all clerical graces that 
was ever conceived by an able novelist. 

And so I come back to Mr. Irwine, with whom I desire you 
to be in perfect charity, far as he may be from satisfying your 
demands on the clerical character. Perhaps you think he was 
not — as he ought to have been — a living demonstration of 
the benefits attached to a national church? But I am not 
sure of that ; at least I know that the people in Broxton and 
Hayslope would have been very sorry to part with their clergy- 
man, and that most faces brightened at his approach ; and 
until it can be proved that hatred is a better thing for the s?ul 


180 


ADAM BEDE. 


than love, I must believe that Mr. Ir wine’s influence in his 
parish was a more wholesome one than that of the zealous 
Mr. Eyde, who came there twenty years afterwards, when Mr. 
Irwine had been gathered to his fathers. It is true, Mr. Eyde 
insisted strongly on the doctrines of the Eeformation, visited 
his flock a great deal in their own homes, and was severe in 
rebuking the aberrations of the flesh — put a stop, indeed, to 
the Christmas rounds of the church singers, as promoting 
drunkenness, and too light a handling of sacred things. But 
I gathered from Adam Bede, to whom I talked of these 
matters in his old age, that few clergymen could be less suc- 
cessful in winning the hearts of their parishioners than Mr. 
Eyde. They learned a great many notions about doctrine 
from him, so that almost every church-goer under fifty began 
to distinguish as well between the genuine gospel and what 
did not come precisely up to that standard, as if he had been 
born and bred a Dissenter ; and for some time after his arrival 
there seemed to be quite a religious movement in that quiet 
rural district. “But,” said Adam, “I’ve seen pretty 'fear, 
ever since I was a young un, as religion’s somethin! else 
besides notions. It is n’t notions sets people doing th( right 
thing — it ’s feelings. It ’s the same with the notions n re- 
ligion as it is with math’matics, — a man may be able tx work 
problems straight off in ’s head as he sits by the fk e and 
smokes his pipe ; but if he has to make a machine or build- 
ing, he must have a will and a resolution, and love something 
else better than his own ease. Somehow, the congregation 
began to fall off, and people began to speak light o’ Mr. Eyde. 
I believe he meant right at bottom ; but, you see, he was 
sourish-tempered, and was for beating down prices with the 
people as worked for him ; and his preaching would n’t go 
down well with that sauce. And he wanted to be like my 
lord judge i’ the parish, punishing folks for doing wrong j and 
he scolded ’em from the pulpit as if he ’d been a Eanter, and 
yet he could n’t abide the Dissenters, and was a deal more set 
against ’em than Mr. Irwine was. And then he did n’t keep 
within his income, for he seemed to think at first go-off that 
six hundred a-year was to make him as big a man as Mr. 


IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES A LITTLE. 187 


Donnithorne : that ’s a sore mischief I ’ve often seen with the 
poor curates jumping into a bit of a living all of a sudden. 
Mr. Ryde was a deal thought on at a distance, I believe, and 
he wrote books; but as for math’matics and the natur o’ 
things, he was as ignorant as a woman. He was very know- 
ing about doctrines, and used to call ’em the bulwarks of the 
Reformation ; but I ’ve always mistrusted that sort o’ learn- 
ing as leaves folks foolish and unreasonable about business. 
Now Mester Irwine was as different as could be: as quick ! — 
he understood what you meant in a minute ; and he knew all 
about building, and could see when you ’d made a good job. 
And he behaved as much like a gentleman to the farmers, and 
th’ old women and the laborers, as he did to the gentry. You 
never saw him interfering and scolding, and trying to play th’ 
emperor. Ah ! he was a fine man as ever you set eyes on ; 
and so kind to ’s mother and sisters. That poor sickly Miss 
Anne — he seemed to think more of her than of anybody else 
in the world. There was n’t a soul in the parish had a word 
to say against him ; and his servants stayed with him till they 
were so old and pottering, he had to hire other folks to do 
their work.” 

“ Well,” I said, “that was an excellent way of preaching in 
the week-days ; but I dare say, if your old friend Mr. Irwine 
were to come to life again, and get into the pulpit next Sun- 
day, you would be rather ashamed that he didn’t preach 
better after all your praise of him.” 

“ Nay, nay,” said Adam, broadening his chest and throwing 
himself back in his chair, as if he were ready to meet all 
inferences, “nobody has ever heard me say Mr. Irwine was 
much of a preacher. He did n’t go into deep speritial ex- 
perience ; and I know there ’s a deal in a man’s inward life 
as you can’t measure by the square, and say, ‘Do this and 
that’ll follow,’ and, ‘Do that and this’ll follow.’ There’s 
things go on in the soul, and times when feelings come into 
you like a rushing mighty wind, as the Scripture says, and 
part your life in two a’most, so as you look back on yourself 
as if you was somebody else. Those are things as you can’t 
bottle up in a ' do this ’ and ‘ do that ; ’ and I ’ll go so far with 


188 


ADAM BEDE. 


the strongest Methodist ever you’ll find. That shows me 
there’s deep speritial things in religion. You can’t make 
much out wi’ talking about it, but you feel it. Mr. Irwine 
didn’t go into those things: he preached short moral ser- 
mons, and that was all. But then he acted pretty much up 
to what he said ; he did n’t set up for being so different from 
other folks one day, and then be as like ’em as two peas the 
next. And he made folks love him and respect him, and that 
was better nor stirring up their gall wi’ being over-busy. Mrs. 
Poyser used to say — you know she would have her word 
about everything — she said, Mr. Irwine was like a good meal 
o’ victual, you were the better for him without thinking on it, 
and Mr. Byde was like a dose o’ physic, he gripped you and 
worreted you, and after all he left you much the same.” 

“ But did n’t Mr. Byde preach a great deal more about that 
spiritual part of religion that you talk of, Adam ? Could n’t 
you get more out of his sermons than out of Mr. Irwine’s ? ” 

‘*'Eh, I knowna. He preached a deal about doctrines. But 
I ’ve seen pretty clear ever since I was a young un, as relig- 
ion ’s something else besides doctrines and notions. I look at 
it as if the doctrines was like finding names for your feelings, 
so as you can talk of ’em when you ’ve never known ’em, just 
as a man may talk o’ tools when he knows their names, 
though he ’s never so much as seen ’em, still less handled ’em. 
I ’ve heard a deal o’ doctrine i’ my time, for I used to go after 
the Dissenting preachers along wi’ Seth, when I was a lad o’ 
seventeen, and got puzzling myself a deal about th’ Arminians 
and the Calvinists. The Wesley ans, you know, are strong 
Arminians ; and Seth, who could never abide anything harsh, 
and was always for hoping the best, held fast by the Wes- 
leyans from the very first ; but I thought I could pick a hole 
or two in their notions, and I got disputing wi’ one o’ the 
class leaders down at Treddles’on, and harassed him so, first 
o’ this side and then o’ that, till at last he said, ‘ Young man, 
it’s the devil making use o’ your pride and conceit as a 
weapon to war against the simplicity o’ the truth.’ I could n’t 
help laughing then, but as I was going home, I thought the 
man was n’t far wrong. I began to see as all this weighing 


IN WHICH THE STORY PAUSES A LITTLE. 189 


and sifting wliat this text means and that text means, and 
whether folks are saved all byjGod’s grace, or whether there 
goes an ounce o’ their own will to ’t, was no part o’ real relig- 
ion at all. You may talk o’ these things for hours on end. 
and you ’ll only be all the more coxy and conceited for ’t. So I 
took to going nowhere but to church, and hearing nobody but 
Mr. Irwine, for he said nothing but what was good, and what 
you ’d be the wiser for remembering. And I found it better 
for my soul to be humble before the mysteries o’ God’s deal- 
ings, and not be making a clatter about what I could never 
understand. And they ’re poor foolish questions after all ; 
for what have we got either inside or outside of us but what 
comes from God ? If we ’ve got a resolution to do right, he 
gave it us, I reckon, first or last ; but I see plain enough we 
shall never do it without a resolution, and that ’s enough for 
me.” 

Adam, you perceive, was a warm admirer, perhaps a partial 
judge, of Mr. Irwine, as, happily, some of us still are of the 
people we have known familiarly. Doubtless it will be de- 
spised as a weakness by that lofty order of minds who pant 
after the ideal, and are oppressed by a general sense that their 
emotions are of too exquisite a character to find fit objects 
among their every-day fellow-men. I have often been favored 
with the confidence of these select natures, and find them 
concur in the experience that great men are over-estimated 
and small men are insupportable ; that if you would love a 
woman without ever looking back on your love as a folly, she 
must die while you are courting her ; and if you would main- 
tain the slightest belief in human heroism, you must never 
make a pilgrimage to see the hero. I confess I have often 
meanly shrunk from confessing to these accomplished and 
acute gentlemen what my own experience has been. I am 
afraid I have often smiled with hypocritical assent, and grati- 
fied them with an epigram on the fleeting nature of our illu- 
sions, which any one moderately acquainted with French 
literature can command at a moment’s notice. Human com 
verse, I think some wise man has remarked, is not rigidly 
gincere. But I herewith discharge my conscience, and declare. 


190 


ADAM BEDE. 


that I have had quite enthusiastic movements of admiration 
towards old gentlemen who spoke the worst English, who 
were occasionally fretful in their temper, and who had never 
moved in a higher sphere of influence than that of parish 
overseer ; and that the way in which I have come to the con- 
clusion that human nature is lovable — the way I have learnt 
something of its deep pathos, its sublime mysteries — has 
been by living a great deal among people more or less com- 
monplace and vulgar, of whom you would perhaps hear 
nothing very surprising if you were to inquire about them in 
the neighborhoods where they dwelt. Ten to one most of the 
small shopkeepers in their vicinity saw nothing at all in 
them. For I have observed this remarkable coincidence, that 
the select natures who pant after the ideal, and find nothing 
in pantaloons or petticoats great enough to command their 
reverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest 
and pettiest. For example, I have often heard Mr. Gedge, the 
landlord of the Eoyal Oak, who used to turn a bloodshot eye 
on his neighbors in the village of Shepperton, sum up his 
opinion of the people in his own parish — and they were all 
the people he knew — in these emphatic words : “ Ay, sir, 
I ’ve said it often, and I ’ll say it again, they ’re a poor lot i’ 
this parish — a poor lot, sir, big and little.” I think he had 
a dim idea that if he could migrate to a distant parish, he 
might find neighbors worthy of fwm ; and indeed he did sub- 
sequently transfer himself to the Saracen’s Head, which was 
doing a thriving business in the back street of a neighboring 
market-town. But, oddly enough, he has found the people up 
&hat back street of precisely the same stamp as the inhabitants 
of Shepperton — “ a poor lot, sir, big and little, and them as 
comes for a go o’ gin are no better than them as comes for a 
pint o’ twopenny — a poor lot.” 


CHURCH. 


101 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

CHURCH. 

ee Hetty, Hetty, don’t you know church begins at two, and 
it’s gone half after one a’ready? Have you got nothing 
better to think on this good Sunday, as poor old Thias Bede’s 
to be put into the ground, and him drownded i’ th’ dead o’ the 
night, as it ’s enough to make one’s back run cold, but you 
must be ’dizening yourself as if there was a wedding istid of a 
funeral?” 

“Well, aunt,” said Hetty, “I can’t be ready so soon as 
everybody else, when I ’ve got Totty’s things to put on. And 
I’d ever such work to made her stand still.” 

Hetty was coming down-stairs, and Mrs. Poyser, in her 
plain bonnet and shawl, was standing below. If ever a girl 
looked as if she had been made of roses, that girl was Hetty 
in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hat was trimmed with 
pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprinkled on a white 
ground. There was nothing but pink and white about her, 
except in her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes. 
Mrs. Poyser was provoked at herself, for she could hardly 
keep from smiling, as any mortal is inclined to do at the sight 
of pretty round things. So she turned without speaking, and 
joined the group outside the house door, followed by Hetty, 
whose heart was fluttering so at the thought of some one she 
expected to see at church, that she hardly felt the ground she 
trod on. 

And now the little procession set off. Mr. Poyser was in 
his Sunday suit of drab, with a red-and-green waistcoat, and a 
green watch-ribbon having a large corneiian seal attached, 
pendent like a plumb-line from that promontory where his 
watch-pocket was situated; a silk handkerchief of a yellow 
tone round his neck ; and excellent gray ribbed stockings, 
knitted by Mrs. Poyser’s own hand, setting off the proportions 
of his leg. Mr. Poyser had no reason to be ashamed of his 


ADAM BEDE. 


m 

leg, and suspected that the growing abuse ot top-boots and 
other fashions tending to disguise the nether limbs had their 
origin in a pitiable degeneracy of the human calf. Still less 
had he reason to be ashamed of his round jolly face, which 
was good-humor itself as he said, u Come, Hetty — come, little 
uns ! ” and giving his arm to his wife, led the way through 
the causeway gate into the yard. 1 

The “ little uns ” addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys 
of nine and seven, in little fustian tailed coats and knee 
breeches, relieved by rosy cheeks and black eyes ; looking as 
much like their father as a very small elephant is like a very 
large one. Hetty walked between them, and behind came 
patient Molly, whose task it was to carry Totty through the 
yard, and over all the wet places on the road ; for Totty, 
having speedily recovered from her threatened fever, had 
insisted on going to church to-day, and especially on wear- 
ing her red-and-black necklace outside her tippet. And there 
were many wet places for her to be carried over this after- 
noon, for there had been heavy showers in the morning, 
though now the clouds had rolled off and lay in towering 
silvery masses on the horizon. 

You might have known it was Sunday if you had only 
waked up in the farmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to 
know it, and made only crooning subdued noises ; the very 
bull-dog looked less savage, as if he would have been satisfied 
with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seemed to call 
all things to rest and not to labor ; it was asleep itself on the 
moss-grown cow-shed ; on the group of white ducks nestling 
together with their bills tucked under their wings ; on the old 
black sow stretched languidly on the straw, while her largest 
young one found an excellent spring-bed on his mother’s fat 
ribs ; on Alick, the shepherd, in his new smock-frock, taking 
an uneasy siesta, half-sitting half-standing on the granary 
steps. Alick was of opinion that church, like other luxuries, 
was not to be indulged in often by a foreman who had the 
weather and the ewes on his mind. Church ! nay — I ’n 
gotten summat else to think on,” was an answer which he 
often uttered in a tone of bitter significance that silenced 


CHURCH. 


193 


further question. I feel sure Alick meant no irreverence , 
indeed, I know that his mind was not of a speculative, nega- 
tive cast, and he would on no account have missed going to 
church on Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and “ Whissun- 
tide.” But he had a general impression that public worship 
and religious ceremonies, like other non-productive employ- 
ments, were intended for people who had leisure. 

“ There ’s father a-standing at the yard-gate,” said Martin 
Poyser. “ I reckon he wants to watch us down the field. It ’s 
wonderful what sight he has, and him turned seventy -five.” 

“Ah, I often think it’s wi’ th’ old folks as it is wi’ the 
babbies,” said Mrs. Poyser ; “ they ’re satisfied wi’ looking, 
no matter what they ’re looking at. It ’s God A’mighty’s 
way o’ quietening ’em, I reckon, afore they go to sleep.” 

Old Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession 
approaching, and held it wide open, leaning on his stick — 
pleased to do this bit of work ; for, like all old men whose 
life has been spent in labor, he liked to feel that he was still 
useful — that there was a better crop of onions in the garden 
because he was by at the sowing — and that the oows would 
be milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday after- 
noon to look on. He always went to church on Sacrament 
Sundays, but not very regularly at other times ; on wet Sun- 
days, or whenever he had a touch of rheumatism, he used to 
read the three first chapters of Genesis instead. 

“ They ’ll ha’ putten Thias Bede i’ the ground afore ye get 
to the churchyard,” he said, as his son came up. “ It ’ud ha’ 
been better luck if they ’d ha’ buried him i’ the forenoon when 
the rain was failin’ ; there ’s no likelihoods of a drop now ; 
an’ the moon lies like a boat there, dost see ? That ’s a sure 
sign o’ fair weather — there ’s a many as is false, but that ’s 
sure.” 

“Ay, ay,” said the son, “I’m in hopes it’ll hold up now.” 

“Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, 
my lads,” said Grandfather to the black-eyed youngsters in 
knee-breeches, conscious of a marble or two in their pockets, 
which they looked forward to handling a little, secretly, 
during the sermon. , 

VOL. I. 


194 


ADAM BEDE. 


« Dood-by, dandad,” said Totty. “ Me doin to church. Me 
dot my netlace on. Dive me a peppermint.” 

Grandad, shaking with laughter at this “ deep little wench,” 
slowly transferred his stick to his left hand, which held the 
gate open, and slowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat- 
pocket on which Totty had fixed her eyes with a confident 
look of expectation. 

And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the 
gate again, watching them across the lane along the Home 
Close, and through the far gate, till they disappeared behind 
a bend in the hedge. For the hedgerows in those days shut 
out one’s view, even on the better-managed farms; and this 
afternoon, the dog-roses were tossing out their pink wreaths, 
the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale 
honeysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly 
bush, and over all an ash or a sycamore every now and then 
threw its shadow across the path. 

There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move 
aside and let them pass : at the gate of the Home Close there 
was half the dairy of cows standing one behind the other, 
extremely slow to understand that their large bodies might be 
in the way ; at the far gate there was the mare holding her 
head over the bars, and beside her the liver-colored foal with 
its head towards its mother’s flank, apparently still much 
embarrassed by its own straddling existence. The way lay 
entirely through Mr. Poyser’s own fields till they reached the 
main road leading to the village, and he turned a keen eye on 
the stock and the crops as they went along, while Mrs. Poyser 
was ready to supply a running commentary on them all. The 
woman who manages a dairy has a large share in making the 
rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion on stock 
and their “ keep ” — an exercise which strengthens her under- 
standing so much that she finds herself able to give her 
husband advice on most other subjects. 

“ There ’s that short-horned Sally,” she said, as they entered 
the Home Close, and she caught sight of the meek beast that 
lay chewing the cud, and looking at her with a sleepy eye. 
"I begin to hate the sight o’ the cowhand I say now what I 


CHURCH 


195 


said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid of her the better, 
for there ’s that little yallow cow as does n’t give half the milk, 
and yet I’ve twice as much butter from her.” 

“Why, thee’t not like the women in general,” said Mr, 
Poyser ; “ they like the short-horns, as give such a lot o’ milk. 
There ’s Chowne’s wife wants him to buy no other sort.” 

“ What ’s it sinnify what Chowne’s wife likes ? — a poor 
soft thing, wi’ no more head-piece nor a sparrow. She ’d take 
a big cullender to strain her lard wi’, and then wonder as the 
scratchins run through. I ’ve seen enough of her to know as 
I ’ll niver take a servant from her house again — all hugger- 
mugger — and you ’d niver know, when you went in, whether 
it was Monday or Friday, the wash draggin’ on to th’ end o’ 
the week ; and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose 
like a loaf in a tin last year. And then she talks o’ the 
weather bein’ i’ fault, as there ’s folks ’ud stand on their heads 
and then say the fault was i’ their boots.” 

“ Well, Chowne ’s been wanting to buy Sally, so we can get 
rid of her if thee lik’st,” said Mr. Poyser, secretly proud of 
his wife’s superior power of putting two and two together; 
indeed, on recent market-days he had more than once boasted 
of her discernment in this very matter of short-horns. 

“ Ay, them as choose a soft for a wife may ’s well buy up 
the short-horns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog your 
legs may ’s well go after it. Eh ! talk o’ legs, there ’s legs for 
you,” Mrs. Poyser continued, as Totty, who had been set down 
now the road was dry, toddled on in front of her father and 
mother. “ There ’s shapes ! An’ she ’s got such a long foot, 
she’ll be her father’s own child.” 

“ Ay, she ’ll be welly such a one as Hetty i’ ten years’ time, 
on’y she ’s got thy colored eyes. I niver remember a blue eye 
i’ my family ; my mother had eyes as black as sloes, just like 
Hetty’s.” 

“The child ’ull be none the worse for having summat as 
is n’t like Hetty. An’ I ’m none for having her so over pretty. 
Though for the matter o’ that, there ’s people wi’ light hair an’ 
blue eyes as pretty as them wi’ black. If Dinah had got a bit 
o’ color in her cheeks, an’ did n’t stick that Methodist cap on 


196 ADAM BEDE, 

her head, enough to frighten the cows, folks ’ud think her as 
pretty as Hetty.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with rather a contemptuous 
emphasis, “thee dostna know the pints of a woman. The 
men ’ud niver run after Dinah as they would after Hetty.” 

“ What care I what the men ’ud run after ? It ’s well seen 
what choice the most of ’em know how to make, by the poor 
draggle-tails o’ wives you see, like bits o’ gauze ribbin, good 
for nothing when the color’s gone.” 

“Well, well, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to 
make a choice when I married thee,” said Mr. Poyser, who 
usually settled little conjugal disputes by a compliment of this 
sort ; “ and thee wast twice as buxom as Dinah ten year ago. ” 

“ I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a 
good missis of a house. There ’s Chowne’s wife ugly enough 
to turn the milk an’ save the rennet, but she’ll niver save 
nothing any other way. But as for Dinah, poor child, she ’s 
niver likely to be buxom as long as she ’ll make her dinner o’ 
cake and water, for the sake o’ giving to them as want. She 
provoked me past bearing sometimes ; and, as I told her, she 
went clean again’ the Scrip fcur’, for that says, ‘Love your 
neighbor as yourself ; ’ ‘ but,’ I said, ‘ if you loved your neigh- 
bor no better nor you do yourself, Dinah, it’s little enough 
you’d do for him. You’d be thinking he might do well 
enough on a half-empty stomach.’ Eh, I wonder where she is 
this blessed Sunday ! — sitting by that sick woman, I dare say, 
as she ’d set her heart on going to all of a sudden.” 

“ Ah, it was a pity she should take such megrims into her 
head, when she might ha’ stayed wi’ us all summer, and eaten 
twice as much as she wanted, and it ’ud niver ha’ been missed. 
She made no odds in th’ house at all, for she sat as still at her 
sewing as a bird on the nest, and was uncommon nimble at 
running to fetch anything. If Hetty gets married, thee ’dst 
like to ha’ Dinah wi’ thee constant.” 

“It’s no use thinking o’ that,” said Mrs. Poyser. “You 
might as well beckon to the flying swallow, as ask Dinah to 
come an’ live here comfortable, like other folks. If anything 
could turn her, I should ha’ turned her, for I ’ve talked to her 


CHURCH. 


197 


for a hour on end, and scolded her too ; for she ’s my own 
sister s child, and it behoves me to do what I can for her. 
But eh, poor thing, as soon as she’d said, us ‘good-by,’ an’ 
got into the cd.rt, an’ looked back at me wi,th her pale face, 
as is welly like her aunt Judith come back from heaven, 1 
begun to be frightened to think o’ the set-downs I ’d given 
her; for it comes over you sometimes as if she ’d a way o’ 
knowing the rights o’ things more nor other folks have. But 
I 11 niver give in as that ’s ’cause she ’s a Methodist, no more 
nor a white calf ’s white ’cause it eats out o’ the same bucket 
wi’ a black un.” 

“Nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with as near an approach to a 
snarl as his good-nature would allow; “ I ’n no opinion o’ the 
Methodists. It ’s on’y tradesfolks as turn Methodists ; you 
niver knew a farmer bitten wi’ them maggots. There ’s 
maybe a workman now and then, as is n’t over clever at ’s work, 
takes to preachin’ an’ that, like Seth Bede. But you see 
Adam, as has got one o’ the best head-pieces hereabout, knows 
better; he ’s a good Churchman, else I ’d never encourage him 
for a sweetheart for Hetty.” 

“ Why, goodness me,” said Mrs. Poyser, who had looked 
back while her husband was speaking, “look where Molly is 
with them lads ! They ’re the field’s length behind us. How 
could you let ’em do so, Hetty ? Anybody might as well set 
a pictur to watch the children as you. Run back and tell ’em 
to come on.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second 
field, so they set Totty on the top of one of the large stones 
forming the true Loamshire stile, and awaited the loiterers ; 
Totty observing with complacency, “Dey naughty, naughty 
boys — me dood.” 

The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was 
fraught with great excitement to Marty and Tommy, who saw 
a perpetual drama going on in the hedgerows, and could no 
more refrain from stopping and peeping than if they had been 
a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quite sure he saw 
a yellowhammer on the boughs of the groat ash, and while he 
was peeping, he missed the sight of a white- throated stoat, 


m 


ADAM BEDE. 


which had run across the path and was described with much 
fervor by the junior Tommy. Then there was a little green- 
finch, just fledged, fluttering along the ground, and it seemed 
quite possible to catch it, till it managed to flutter under the 
blackberry bush. Hetty could not be got to give any heed fco 
these things, so Molly was called on for her ready sympathy, 
and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and said 
“ Lawks ! ” whenever she was expected to wonder. 

Molly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come 
back and called to them that her aunt was angry ; but Marty 
ran on first, shouting, “We’ve found the speckled turkey's 
nest, mother ! ” with the instinctive confidence that people 
who bring good news are never in fault. 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in 
this pleasant surprise, “ that ’s a good lad ; why, where is ii ? ” 

“Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it 
first, looking after the greenfinch, and she sat on th’ nest.” 

“You didn’t frighten her, I hope,” said the mother, “else 
she ’ll forsake it.” 

“ No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly 
— didn’t I, Molly?” 

“ Well, well, now come on,” said Mrs, Poyser, “ and walk 
before father and mother, and take your little sister by the 
hand. We must go straight on now. Good boys don’t look 
after the birds of a Sunday.” 

“But, mother,” said Marty, “you said you’d give half-a- 
crown to find the speckled turkey’s nest. May n’t I have the 
half-crown put into my money-box ? ” 

! “We ’ll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like 
a good boy.” 

1 The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of 
amusement at their eldest-born’s acuteness; but on Tommy’s 
round face there was a cloud. 

“ Mother,” he said, half crying, “ Marty ’s got ever so much 
more money in his box nor I ’ve got in mine.” 

“ Munny, me want half-a-toun in my bots,” said Totty. 

“ Hush, hush, hush,” said Mrs. Poyser, “ did ever anybody 
hear such naughty children? Nobody shall ever see their 


CHURCH. 199 

money-boxes any more, if they don’t make baste and go on to 
church.” 

This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the 
two remaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted on 
without any serious interruption, notwithstanding a smaU 
pond full of tadpoles alias “ bullheads,” which the lads looked 
at wistfully. } 

The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh 
to-morrow was not a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during 
hay and corn harvest had often some mental struggles as to 
the benefits of a day of rest ; but no temptation would have 
induced him to carry on any field-work, however early in the 
morning, on a Sunday ; for had not Michael Holds worth had 
a pair of oxen “ sweltered ” while he was ploughing on Good 
Friday ? That was a demonstration that work on sacred days 
was a wicked thing ; and with wickedness of any sort Martin 
Poyser was quite clear that he would have nothing to do, 
since money got by such means would never prosper. 

“ It a’moet makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the 
sun shines so,” he observed, as they passed through the “ Big 
Meadow.” “ But it ’s poor foolishness to think o’ saving by 
going against your conscience. There ’s that Jim Wakefield, 
as they used to call ‘ Gentleman Wakefield,’ used to do the 
same of a Sunday as o’ week-days, and took no heed to right 
or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil. An’ what ’s 
he come to ? Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carry- 
ing a basket wi’ oranges in ’t.” 

“Ah, to be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, “you 
make but a poor trap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi’ 
wickedness. The money as is got so ’s like to burn holes i’ 
your pocket. I ’d niver wish us to leave our lads a sixpence 
but what was got i’ the rightful way. And as for the weather, 
there’s One above makes it, and we must put up wi’t: it’s 
nothing of a plague to what the wenches are.” 

Notwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excellent 
habit which Mrs. Poyser’s clock had of taking time by the fore- 
lock, had secured their arrival at the village while it was still 
a Quarter to two, though almost every one who meant to go to 


200 


ADAM BEDE. 


church was already within the churchyard gates. Those who 
stayed at home were chiefly mothers, like Timothy’s Bess, who 
stood at her own door nursing her baby, and feeling as women 
feel in that position — that nothing else can be expected of 
them. 

It was not entirely to see Thias Bede’s funeral that the 
people were standing about the churchyard so long before 
service began ; that was ^their common practice. The women, 
indeed, usually entered the church at once, and the farmers’ 
wives talked in an undertone to each other, over the tall pews, 
about their illnesses and the total failure of doctor’s stuff, 
recommending, dandelion-tea, and other home-made specifics, 
as far preferable — about the servants, and their growing ex- 
orbitance as to wages, whereas the quality of their services 
declined from year to year, and there was no girl nowadays to 
be trusted any further than you could see her — about the bad 
price Mr. Dingall, the Treddleston grocer, was giving for butter, 
and the reasonable doubts that might be held as to his solvency, 
notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sensible woman, and 
they were all sorry for her , for she had very good kin. Mean- 
time the men lingered outside, and hardly any of them except 
the singers, who had a humming and fragmentary rehearsal to 
go through, entered the church until Mr. Irwine was in the 
desk. They saw no reason for that premature entrance, — 
what could they do in church, if they were there before service 
began ? — and they did not conceive that any power in the 
universe could take it ill of them if they stayed out and talked 
a little about “ bus’ness.” 

Chad Cranage looks like quite a new acquaintance to-day, 
for he has got his clean Sunday face, which always makes his 
little granddaughter cry at him as a stranger. But an expe- 
rienced eye would have fixed on him at once as the village 
blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference with which the 
big saucy fellow took off his hat and stroked his hair to the 
farmers ; for Chad was accustomed to say that a working man 

must hold a candle to a personage understood to be as 

black as he was himself on week-days ; by which evil-sounding 
rule of conduct he meant what was, after all, rather virtuous 


CHURCH. 


201 


than otherwise, namely, that men who had horses to be shod 
must be treated with respect. Chad and the rougher sort of 
workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn, 
where the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and sev- 
eral of the farm-laborers, made a group round it, and stood 
with their hats off, as fellow-mourners with the mother and 
sons. Others held a midway position, sometimes watching 
the group at the grave, sometimes listening to the conversation 
of the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door, and 
were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his family passed 
into the church. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, 
the landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking 
attitude — that is to say, with the forefinger of his right hand 
thrust between the buttons of his waistcoat, his left hand in 
his breeches pocket, and his head very much on one side ; look- 
ing, on the whole, like an actor who has only a monosyllabic 
part intrusted to him, but feels sure that the audience discern 
his fitness for the leading business ; curiously in contrast with 
old Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind him, and 
leaned forward coughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn 
of all knowingness that could not be turned into cash. The 
talk was in rather a lower tone than usual to-day, hushed a 
little by the sound of Mr. Irwine’s voice reading the final 
prayers of the burial-service. They had all had their word of 
pity for poor Thias, but now they had got upon the nearer 
subject of their own grievances against Satchell, the Squire’s 
bailiff, who played the part of steward so far as it was not per- 
formed by old Mr. Donnithorne himself, for that gentleman 
had the meanness to receive his own rents and make bargains 
about his own timber. This subject of conversation was an 
additional reason for not being loud, since Satchell himself 
might presently be walking up the paved road to the church 
door. And soon they became suddenly silent ; for Mr. Irwine’s 
voice had ceased, and the group round the white thorn was 
dispersing itself towards the church. 

They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while 
Mr. Irwine passed. Adam and Seth were coming next, with 
their mother between them ; for J oshua Rann officiated as 


202 


ADAM BEDE. 


head sexton as well as clerk, and was net yet ready to follow 
the rector into the vestry. But there was a pause before the 
three mourners came on: Lisbeth had turned round to look 
again towards the grave ! Ah ! there was nothing now but 
the brown earth under the white thorn. Yet she cried less 
to-day than she had done any day since her husband’s death : 
along with all her grief there was mixed an unusual sense of 
her own importance in having a “ burial/’ and in Mr. Irwine’s 
reading a special service for her husband; and besides, she 
knew the funeral psalm was going to be sung for him. She 
felt this counter-excitement to her sorrow still more strongly 
as she walked with her sons towards the church door, and saw 
the friendly sympathetic nods of their fellow-parishioners. 

The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one 
the loiterers followed, though some still lingered without ; the 
sight of Mr. Donnithorne’s carriage, which was winding slowly 
up the hill, perhaps helping to make them feel that there was 
no need for haste. 

But presently the sound of the bassoon and the key-bugles 
burst forth ; the evening hymn, which always opened the ser- 
vice, had begun, and every one must now enter and take his 
place. 

I cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was 
remarkable for anything except for the gray age of its oaken 
pews — great square pews mostly, ranged on each side of a 
narrow aisle. It was free, indeed, from the modern blemish 
of galleries. The choir had two narrow pews to themselves 
in the middle of the right-hand row, so that it was a short 
process for Joshua Rann to take his place among them as 
principal bass, and return to his desk after the singing was 
over. The pulpit and desk, gray and old as the pews, stood 
on one side of the arch leading into the chancel, which also 
had its gray square pews for Mr. Donnithorne’s family and 
servants. Yet I assure you these gray pews, with the buif- 
washed walls, gave a very pleasing tone to this shabby interior, 
and agreed extremely well with the ruddy faces and bright 
waistcoats. And there were liberal touches of crimson toward 
the chancel, for the pulpit and Mr. Donnithorne’s own pew 


CHURCH, 


203 


had handsome crimson cloth cushions ; and, to close the vista, 
there was a crimson altar-cloth, embroidered with golden rays 
by Miss Lydia’s own hand. 

But even without the crimson cloth, the effect must have 
been warm and cheering when Mr, Irwine was in the desk, 
looking benignly round on that simple congregation — on the 
hardy old men, with bent knees and shoulders, perhaps, but 
vitb vigor left for much hedge-clipping and thatching ; on the 
Ml stalwart frames and roughly cut bronzed faces of the stone- 
cutters and carpenters ; on the half-dozen well-to-do farmers, 
with their apple-cheeked families ; and on the clean old women, 
mostly farm-laborers’ wives, with their bit of snow-white cap- 
border under their black bonnets, and with their withered arms, 
bare from the elbow, folded passively over their chests. For 
none of the old people held books — why should they? not one 
of them could read. But they knew a few “ good words ” by 
heart, and their withered lips now and then moved silently, 
following the service without any very clear comprehension 
indeed, but with a simple faith in its efficacy to ward off harm 
and bring blessing. And now all faces were visible, for all 
were standing up — the little children on the seats peeping 
over the edge of the gray pews, while good Bishop Ken’s 
evening hymn was being sung to one of those lively psalm- 
tunes which died out with the last generation of rectors and 
choral parish-clerks. Melodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, 
with the ears that love them and listen for them. Adam was 
not in his usual place among the singers to-day, for he sat with 
his mother and Seth, and he noticed with surprise that Bartle 
Massey was absent too: all the more agreeable for Mr. Joshua 
;Rann, who gave out his bass notes with unusual complacency, 
and threw an extra ray of severity into the glances he sent over 
his spectacles at the recusant Will Maskery. 

I beseech you to imagine Mr. Irwine looking round on this 
scene, in his ample white surplice, that became him so well, 
with his powdered hair thrown back, his rich brown complexion, 
and his finely cut nostril and upper lip; for there was a certain 
virtue in that benignant yet keen countenance, as there is in 
all human faces from which a generous soul beams out. And 


204 


ADAM BEDE. 


over all streamed the delicious J une sunshine through the old 
windows, with their desultory patches of yellow, red, and blue, 
that threw pleasant touches of color on the opposite wall. 

I think, as Mr. Irwine looked round to-day, his eyes rested 
an instant longer than usual on the square pew occupied by 
Martin Poyser and his family. And there was another pair 
of dark eyes that found it impossible not to wander thither, 
and rest on that round pink-and- white figure. But Hetty was 
at that moment quite careless of any glances — she was absorbed 
in the thought that Arthur Donnithorne would soon be coming 
into church, for the carriage must surely be at the church gate 
by this time. She had never seen him since she parted with 
nim in the wood on Thursday evening, and oh ! how long the 
time had seemed ! Things had gone on just the same as ever 
since that evening ; the wonders that had happened then had 
brought no changes after them ; they were already like a dream. 
When she heard the church door swinging, her heart beat so, 
she dared not look up. She felt that her aunt was curtsying ; 
she curtsied herself. That must be old Mr. Donnithorne - — he 
always came first, the wrinkled small old man, peering round 
with short-sighted glances at the bowing and curtsying congre- 
gation ; then she knew Miss Lydia was passing, and though 
Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable little coal- 
scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses round it, she 
did n’t mind it to-day. But there were no more curtsies — no, 
he was not come; she felt sure there was nothing else passing 
the pew door but the housekeeper’s black bonnet, and the 
lady’s-maid’s beautiful straw that had once been Miss Lydia’s, 
and then the powdered heads of the butler and footman. Ho, 
he was not there ; yet she would look now — she might be 
mistaken — for, after all, she had not looked. So she lifted 
up her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned pew in 
the chancel : — there was no one but old Mr. Donnithorne 
rubbing his spectacles with his white handkerchief, and Miss 
Lydia opening the large gilt-edged prayer-book. The chill dis- 
appointment was too hard to bear: she felt herself turning pale, 
her lips trembling; she was ready to cry. Oh, what should she 
do? Everybody would know the reason; they would know she 


CHURCH. 


205 


was crying because Arthur was not there. And Mr. Craig, with 
the wonderful hothouse plant in his button-hole, was staring 
at her, she knew. It was dreadfully long before the General 
Confession began, so that she could kneel down. Two great 
drops would fall then, but no one saw them except good-natured 
Molly, for her aunt and uncle knelt with their backs towards 
her. Molly, unable to imagine any cause for tears in church 
except faintness, of which she had a vague traditional knowl- 
edge, drew out of her pocket a queer little flat blue smelling- 
bottle, hnd* after much labor in pulling the cork out, thrust the 
narrow neck against Hetty’s nostrils. “ It donna smell,” she 
whispered, thinking this was a great advantage which old salts 
had over fresh ones : they did you good without biting your 
nose. Hetty pushed it away peevishly ; but this little flash of 
temper did what the salts could not have done — it roused her 
to wipe away the traces of her tears, and try with all her might 
not to shed any more. Hetty had a certain strength in her 
vain little nature : she would have borne anything rather than 
be laughed at, or pointed at with any other feeling than admira- 
tion ; she would have pressed her own nails into her tender 
flesh rather than people should know a secret she did not want 
them to know. 

What fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and feel- 
ings, while Mr. Irwine was pronouncing the solemn “ Absolu- 
tion ” in her deaf ears, and through all the tones of petition 
that followed ! Anger lay very close to disappointment, and 
soon won the victory over the conjectures her small ingenuity 
could devise to account for Arthur’s absence on the supposition 
that he really wanted to come, really wanted to see her again. 
And by the time she rose from her knees mechanically, because 
all the rest were rising, the color had returned to her cheeks 
even with a heightened glow, /for she was framing little indig- 
nant speeches to herself, saying she hated Arthur for giving 
her this pain — she would like him to suffer too. Yet while 
this selfish tumult was going on in her soul, her eyes were 
bent down on her prayer-book, and the eyelids with their d^rk 
fringe looked as lovely as ever. Adam Bede thought so. as he 
glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees. 


206 


ADAM BEDE. 


But Adam’s thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the 
service ; they rather blended with all the other deep feelings 
for which the church service was a channel to him this after- 
noon, as a certain consciousness of our entire past and our 
imagined future blends itself with all our moments of keen 
sensibility. And to Adam the church service was the best 
channel he could have found for his mingled regret, yearningj 
and resignation ; its interchange of beseeching cries for help, 
with outbursts of faith and praise — its recurrent responses 
and the familiar rhythm of its collects, seemed to* speak for 
him as no other form of worship could have done; as, to 
those early Christians who had worshipped from their child- 
hood upward in catacombs, the torch-light and shadows must 
have seemed nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish 
daylight of the streets. The secret of our emotions never 
lies in the bare object, but in its subtle relations to our own 
past : no wonder the secret escapes the unsympathizing ob- 
server, who might as well put on his spectacles to discern 
odors. 

—A But there was one reason why even a chance comer would 
have found the service in Hay slope Church more impressive 
than in most other village nooks in the kingdom — a reason, 
of which I am sure you have not the slightest suspicion. It 
was the reading of our friend J oshua Bann. Where that good 
shoemaker got his notion of reading from, remained a mystery 
even to his most intimate acquaintances. I believe, after all, 
he got it chiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her 
music into this honest conceited soul, as she had been known' 
&o do into other narrow souls before his. She had given him, 
at least, a fine bass voice and a musical ear ; but I cannot posi- 
tively say whether these alone had sufficed to inspire him with 
the rich chant in which he delivered the responses. The way 
he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy cadence, 
subsiding, at the end of the last word, into a sort of faint reso- 
nance, like the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I can 
compare to nothing for its strong calm melancholy but the 
rush and cadence of the wind among the autumn boughs 
This may seem a strange mode of speaking about the reading 


CHURCH. 


207 

«£ a parish-clerk — a man in rusty spectacles, with stubbly 
hair, a large occiput, and a prominent crown. But that is 
Nature’s way : she will allow a gentleman of splendid physiog 
nomy and poetic aspirations to sing wofully out of tune, and 
not give him the slightest hint of it; and takes care that some 
narrow-browed fellow, trolling a ballad in the corner of a pot 
house, shall be as true to his intervals as a bird. 

Joshua himself was less proud of his reading than of his 
singing, and it was always with a sense of heightened impor- 
tance that he passed from the desk to the choir. Still more 
to-day : it was a special occasion ; for an old man, familiar to 
all the parish, had died a sad death — not in his bed, a cir- 
cumstance the most painful to the mind of the peasant — and 
now the funeral psalm was to be sung in memory of his' sudden 
departure. Moreover, Bartle Massey was not at church, and 
Joshua’s importance in the choir suffered no eclipse. It was 
a solemn minor strain they sang. The old psalm-tunes have 
many a wail among them, and the words — 

** Thou sweep’st us off as with a flood ; 

We vanish hence like dreams” — 

seemed to have a closer application than usual in the death of 
poor Thias. The mother and sons listened, each with peculiar 
feelings. Lisbeth had a vague belief that the psalm was doing 
her husband good ; it was part of that decent burial which she 
would have thought it a greater wrong to withhold from him 
than to have caused him many unhappy days while he was 
living. The more there was said about her husband, the more 
there was done for him, surely the safer he would be. It was 
poor Lisbeth’s blind way of feeling that human love and pity 
are a ground of faith in some other love. Seth, who was easily 
touched, shed tears, and tried to recall, as he had done con- 
tinually since his father’s death, all that he had heard of the 
possibility that a single moment of consciousness at the last 
might be a moment of pardon and reconcilement ; for was it 
not written in the very psalm they were singing, that the 
Divine dealings were not measured and circumscribed by time? 
Adam had never been unable to .join in a psalm before. He 


208 


ADAM BEDE. 


had known plenty of trouble and vexation since he had been ;■ 
lad ; but this was the first sorrow that had hemmed in his voice, 
and strangely enough it was sorrow because the chief source 
of his past trouble and vexation was forever gone out of his 
reach. He had not been able to press his father’s hand before 
their parting, and say, “ Father, you know it was all right 
between us ; I never forgot what I owed you when I was a 
lad ; you forgive me if I have been too hot and hasty now and 
then ! ” Adam thought but little to-day of the hard work and 
the earnings he had spent on his father : his thoughts ran con- 
stantly on what the old man’s feelings had been in moments 
of humiliation, when he had held down his head before the 
rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in submis- 
sive silence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards 
as to our own generosity, if not justice ; how much more when 
the object of our anger has gone into everlasting silence, 
and we have seen his face for the last time in the meekness 
of death ! 

“ Ah ! I was always too hard,” Adam said to himself. “ It ’s 
a sore fault in me as I ’m so hot and out o’ patience with peo- 
ple when they do wrong, and my heart gets shut up against ’em, 
so as I can’t bring myself to forgive ’em. I see clear enough 
there ’s more pride nor love in my soul, for I could sooner 
make a thousand strokes with th’ hammer for my father than 
bring myself to say a kind word to him. And there went 
plenty o’ pride and temper to the strokes, as the devil will be 
having his finger in what we call our duties as well as our sins. 
Mayhap the best thing I ever did in my life was only doing 
what was easiest for myself. It ’s allays been easier for me 
to work nor to sit still, but the real tough job for me ’ud be to 
master my own will and temper, and go right against my own 
pride. It seems to me now, if I was to find father at home to- 
night, I should behave different ; but there 's no knowing — 
perhaps nothing ’ud be a lesson to us if it didn’t come too 
late. It ’s well we should feel as life ’s a reckoning we can’t 
make twice over ; there ’s no real making amends in this world, 
any more nor you can mend a wrong subtraction by doing your 
addition right.” 


CHURCH. 


209 


This was the key-note to which Adam’s thoughts had per- 
petually returned since his father’s death, and the solemn wail 
of the funeral psalm was only an influence that brought back 
the old thoughts with stronger emphasis. So was the sermon, 
which Mr. Irwine had chosen with reference to Thias’s funeral. 
It spoke briefly and simply of the words, “ In the midst of life 
we are in death ” — how the present moment is all we can call 
our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of fam. 
tly tenderness. All very old truths — but what we thought 
the oldest truth becomes the most startling to us in the week 
when we have looked on the dead face of one who has made a 
part of our own lives. For when men want to impress us with 
the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, do they not 
let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measure 
its intensity by remembering the former dimness ? 

Then came the moment of the final blessing, when the for- 
ever sublime words, “The peace of God, which passeth all 
understanding,” seemed to blend with the calm afternoon sun- 
shine that fell on the bowed heads of the congregation ; and 
then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on the bonnets of the 
little maidens who had slept through the sermon, the fathers 
collecting the prayer-books, until all streamed out through the 
old archway into the green churchyard, and began their neigh- 
borly talk, their simple civilities, and their invitations to tea ; 
for on a Sunday every one was ready to receive a guest — it 
was the day when all must be in their best clothes and their 
best humor. 

Mr. and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the church gate : 
they were waiting for Adam to come up, not being contented 
to go away without saying a kind word to the widow and her 
sons. 

“ Well, Mrs. Bede,” said Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on to- 
gether, “you must keep up your heart; husbands and wives 
must be content when they ’ve lived to rear their children and 
see one another’s hair gray.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Mr. Poyser ; “ they wonna have long to wait 
for one another then, anyhow. And ye’ve got two o’ the 
strapping’st sons i’ th’ country ; and well you may, for I re- 

VOL. i. 


210 


ADAM BEDE. 


member poor Thias as fine a broad-shouldered fellow as need 
to be ; and as for you, Mrs. Bede, why you ’re straighter i’ the 
back nor half the young women now.” 

« Eh,” said Lisbeth, “ it ’s poor luck for the platter to wear 
well when it ’s broke i’ two. The sooner I ’m laid under the 
thorn the better. I ’m no good to nobody now.” 

Adam never took notice of his mother’s little unjust plaints ; 
but Seth said, “Nay, mother, thee mustna say so. Thy sons 
’ull never get another mother.” 

“ That ’s true, lad, that ’s true,” said Mr. Poy ser ; “ and it ’s 
wrong on us to give way to grief, Mrs. Bede ; for it ’s like the 
children cry in’ when the fathers and mothers take things from 
’em. There ’s One above knows better nor us.” 

“ Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, “ an’ it ’s poor work, allays settin’ 
the dead above the livin’. We shall all on us be dead some 
time, I reckon — it ’ud be better if folks ’ud make much on 
us beforehand, istid o’ beginnin’ when we ’re gone. It ’s but 
little good you ’ll do a-watering the last year’s crop.” 

“Well, Adam,” said Mr. Poyser, feeling that his wife’s 
words were, as usual, rather incisive than soothing, and that 
it would be well to change the subject, “you ’ll come and see 
us again now, I hope. I hanna had a talk with you this long 
while, and the missis here wants you to see what can be done 
with her best spinning-wheel, for it ’s got broke, and it ’ll be a 
nice job to mend it — there ’ll want a bit o’ turning. You ’ll 
come as soon as you can now, will you ? ” 

Mr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, 
as if to see where Hetty was ; for the children were running 
on before. Hetty was not without a companion, and she had, 
besides, more pink and white about her than ever; for she 
held in her hand the wonderful pink-and-white hothouse plant, 
with a very long name — a Scotch name, she supposed, since 
people said Mr. Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took 
the opportunity of looking round too ; and I am sure you will 
not require of him that he should feel any vexation in observ- 
ing a pouting expression on Hetty’s face as she listened to the 
gardener’s small-talk. Yet in her secret heart she was glad to 
have him by her side, for she would perhaps learn from 


CHURCH. 


211 


now it was Arthur had not come to church. Hot that she 
cared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information 
would be given spontaneously ; for Mr. Craig, like a superior 
man, was very fond of giving information. 

Mr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and ad- 
vances were received coldly, for to shift one’s point of view 
beyond certain limits is impossible to the most liberal and ex- 
pansive mind; we are none of us aware of the impression we 
produce on Brazilian monkeys of feeble understanding — it is 
possible they see hardly anything in us. Moreover, Mr. Craig 
was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenth yeai 
of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony and 
bachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he had 
been a little heated by an extra glass of grog, he had been 
heard to say of Hetty that the. “ lass was well enough/’ and 
that “ a man might do worse ; ” but on convivial occasions men 
are apt to express themselves strongly. 

Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honor, as a man who “knew 
his business,” and who had great lights concerning soils and 
compost ; but he was less of a favorite with Mrs. Poyser, who 
had more than once said in confidence to her husband, “You ’re 
mighty fond o’ Craig ; but for my part, I think he ’s welly 
like a cock as thinks the sun ’s rose o’ purpose to hear him 
crow.” For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable gardener, 
and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of him- 
self. He had also high shoulders and high cheek-bones, and 
hung his head forward a little, as he walked along with his 
hands in his breeches-pockets. I think it was his pedigree 
only that had the advantage of being Scotch, and not his 
“ bringing up ; ” for except that he had a stronger burr in his 
accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire 
people about him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French 
teacher is Parisian. 

“Well, Mr. Poyser,” he said, before the good slow farmer 
had time to speak, “ ye ’ll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, 
I ’in thinking : the glass sticks at ‘ change,’ and ye may rely 
npo’ my word as we ’ll ha’ more downfall afore twenty-four 
hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloud there upo’ the 


212 


ADAM BEDE. 


’rizon — ye know what I mean by the ’rizon, where the land 
and sky seems to meet ? ” 

“ Ay, ay, I see the cloud,” said Mr. Poyser, “ ’rizon or no 
’rizon. It ’s right o’er Mike Holds worth’s fallow, and a foul 
fallow it is.” 

"Well, you mark my words, as that cloud ’ull spread o’er the 
sky pretty nigh as quick as you ’d spread a tarpaulin over one o’ 
~ r 'ur hay-ricks. It ’s a great thing to ha’ studied the look o’ 
the clouds. Lord bless you ! th’ met’orological almanecks can 
learn me nothing, but there ’s a pretty sight o’ things I could 
let them up to, if they ’d just come to me. And how are you, 
Mrs. Poyser ? — thinking o’ getherin’ the red currants soon, I 
reckon. You’d a deal better gether ’em afore they’re o’er- 
ripe, wi’ such weather as we ’ve got to look forward to. How 
do ye do, Mistress Bede ? ” Mr. Craig continued, without a 
pause, nodding by the way to Adam and Seth. “ I hope y’ 
enjoyed them spinach and gooseberries as I sent Chester with 
th’ other day. If ye want vegetables while ye ’re in trouble, 
ye know where to come to. It ’s well known I ’m not giving 
other folks’ things away ; for when I ’ve supplied the house, 
the garden ’s my own spekilation, and it isna every man th’ 
old Squire could get as ’ud be equil to the undertaking, let 
alone asking whether he ’d be willing. I Ve got to run my 
calkilation fine, I can tell you, to make sure o’ getting back 
the money as I pay the Squire. I should like to see some o’ 
them fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before 
their noses as I ’ve got to do every year as comes.” 

“ They look pretty fur, though,” said Mr. Poyser, turning 
his head on one side, and speaking in rather a subdued rever- 
ential tone. “Why, what could come truer nor that pictur o’ 
the cock wi’ the big spurs, as has got its head knocked down 
wi’ th’ anchor, an’ th’ firin’, an’ the ships behind ? Why, that 
pictur was made afore Christmas, and yit it ’s come as true as 
th’ Bible. Why, th’ cock ’s France, an’ th’ anchor ’s Nelson — 
an’ they told us that beforehand.” 

“ Pee— ee-eh ! ” said Mr. Craig. “ A man doesna want to 
see fur to know as th’ English ’ull beat the French. Why, I 
know upo’ good authority as it ’s a big Frenchman as reaches 


CHURCH. 


213 


five foot high, an’ they live upo’ spoon-meat mostly. I knew 
a man as his father had a particular knowledge o’ the French. 
I should like to know what them grasshoppers are to do against 
such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthur. Why, it ’ud 
astonish a Frenchman only to look at him ; his arm ’s thicker 
nor a Frenchman’s body, I ’ll be bound, for they pinch their- 
sells in wi’ stays ; and it ’s easy enough, for they ’ve got noth- 
ing i’ their insides.” 

“ Where is the Captain, as he wasna at church to-day ? ” 
said Adam. “ I was talking to him o’ Friday, and he said 
nothing about his going away.” 

“ Oh, he ’s only gone to Eagledale for a bit o’ fishing ; I 
reckon he ’ll be back again afore many days are o’er, for he ’s 
to be at all th’ arranging and preparing o’ things for the cornin’ 
o’ age o’ the 30th o’ J uly. But he ’s fond o’ getting away for 
a bit, now and then. Him and th’ old Squire fit one another 
like frost and flowers.” 

Mr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last 
observation, but the subject was not developed farther, for now 
they had reached the turning in the road where Adam and his 
companions must say “ good-by.” The gardener, too, would 
have had to turn off in the same direction if he had not ac- 
cepted Mr. Poyser’s invitation to tea. Mrs. Poyser duly sec- 
onded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep disgrace 
not to make her neighbors welcome to her house : personal 
likes and dislikes must not interfere with that sacred custom. 
Moreover, Mr. Craig had always been full of civilities to the 
family at the Hall Farm, and Mrs. Poyser was scrupulous in 
declaring that she had “ nothing to say again’ him, on’y it 
was a pity he couldna be hatched o’er again, an’ hatched 
different.” 

So Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound 
their way down to the valley and up again to the old house, 
where a saddened memory had taken the place of a long, long 
anxiety — where Adam would never have to ask again as he 
entered, “ Where ’& father ? ” 

And the other family party, with Mr. Craig for company, 
went back to the pleasant bright house-place at the Hall Farm 


-214 


AD Am BEDE. 


— all with, quiet minds, except Hetty, who knew now where 
Arthur was gone, but was only the more puzzled and uneasy. 
For it appeared that his absence was quite voluntary ; he need 
not have gone — he would not have gone if he had wanted to 
see her. She had a sickening sense that no lot could ever be 
pleasant to her again if her Thursday night’s vision was not 
to be fulfilled ; and in this moment of chill, bare, wintry dis* 
appointment and doubt, she looked towards the possibility of 
being with Arthur again, of meeting his loving glance, and 
hearing his soft words, with that eager yearning which one 
may call the * growing pain ” of passion. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ADAM ON A WORKING DAT. 

Notwithstanding Mr. Craig’s prophecy, the dark-blue cloud 
dispersed itself without having produced the threatened con- 
sequences. “ The weather,” as he observed the next morning 
• — ■ “ the weather, you see, ’s a ticklish thing, an’ a fool ’ull hit 
on ’t sometimes when a wise man misses ; that ’s why the 
almanecks get so much credit. It ’s one o’ them chancy things 
as fools thrive on.” 

This unreasonable behavior of the weather, however, could 
displease no one else in Hayslope besides Mr. Craig. All 
hands were to be out in the meadows this morning as soon as 
the dew had risen ; the wives and daughters did double work 
in every farmhouse, that the maids might give their help in 
tossing the hay; and when Adam was marching along the 
lanes, with his basket of tools over his shoulder, he caught 
the sound of jocose talk and ringing laughter from behind the 
hedges. The jocose talk of hay-makers is best at a distance ; 
like those clumsy bells round the cows’ necks, it has rather a 
coarse sound when it comes close, and may even grate on your 
ears painfully ; but heard from far off, it mingles very prettily 


ADAM ON A WORKING DAY. 


215 


with the other joyous sounds of nature. Men’s muscles move 
better when their souls are making merry music, though their 
merriment is of a poor blundering sort, not at all like the 
merriment of birds. 

And perhaps there is no time in a summer’s day more cheer- 
ing, than when the warmth of the sun is just beginning to 
triumph over the freshness of the morning — when there is 
just a lingering hint of early coolness to keep off languor 
.under the delicious influence of warmth. The reason Adam 
was walking along the lanes at this time was because his work 
for the rest of the day lay at a country house about three 
miles off, which was being put in repair for the son of a neigh- 
boring squire ; and he had been busy since early morning with 
the packing of panels, doors, and chimney-pieces, in a wagon 
which was now gone on before him, while Jonathan Burge 
himself had ridden to the spot on horseback, to await its 
arrival and direct the workmen. 

This little walk was a rest to Adam, and he was uncon- 
sciously under the charm of the moment. It was summer 
morning in his heart, and he saw Hetty in the sunshine : a 
sunshine without glare — with slanting rays that tremble 
between the delicate shadows of the leaves. He thought, 
yesterday, when he put out his hand to her as they came out 
of church, that there was a touch of melancholy kindness In 
her face, such as he had not seen before, and he took it as a 
. sign that she had some sympathy with his family trouble. 
Poor fellow ! that touch of melancholy came from quite 
another source; but how was he to know? We look at the 
one little woman’s face we love, as we look at the face of our 
mother earth, and see all sorts of answers to our own yearn- 
ings. It was impossible for Adam not to feel that what had 
happened in the last week had brought the prospect of mar- 
riage nearer to him. Hitherto he had felt keenly the danger 
that some. other man might step in and get possession of 
Hetty’s heart and hand, while he himself was still in a posi- 
tion that made him shrink from asking her to accept him. 
Even if he had had a strong hope that she was fond of him — 
and his hope was far from being; strong — he had been too 

/ 


216 


ADAM BEDE. 


heavily burthened with other claims to provide a home foi 
himself and Hetty — a home such as he could expect her to 
be content with after the comfort and plenty of the Farm. 
Like all strong natures, Adam had confidence in his ability to 
achieve something in the future ; he felt sure he should some 
day, if he lived, be able to maintain a family, and make a good 
broad path for himself ; but he had too cool a’diead not to esti- 
mate to the full the obstacles that were to be overcome. And 
the time would be so long! And there was Hetty, like a 
bright-cheeked apple hanging over the orchard wall, within 
sight of everybody, and everybody must long for her ! To be 
sure, if she loved him very much, she would be content to 
wait for him : but did she love him ? His hopes had never 
risen so high that he had dared to ask her. He was clear- 
sighted enough to be aware that her uncle and aunt would 
have looked kindly on his suit, and indeed without this en- 
couragement he would never have persevered in going to the 
Farm ; but it was impossible to come to any but fluctuating 
conclusions about Hetty’s feelings. She was like a kitten, 
and had the same distractingly pretty looks, that meant 
nothing, for everybody that came near her. 

But now he could not help saying to himself that the heavi- 
est part of his burden was removed, and that even before the 
end of another y ear his circumstances might be brought into 
a shape that would allow him to think of marrying. It would 
always be a hard struggle with his mother, he knew : she 
would be jealous of any wife he might choose, and she had set 
her mind especially against Hetty — perhaps for no other rea- 
son than that she suspected Hetty to be the woman he had 
chosen. It would never do, he feared, for his mother to live 
in the same house with him when he was married ; and yet 
how hard she would think it if he asked her to leave him l 
Yes, there was a great deal of pain to be gone through with 
his mother, but it was a case in which he must make her feel 
that his will was strong — it would be better for her in the end. 
For himself, he would have liked that they should all live to- 
gether till Seth v as married, and they might have built a bit 
themselves to the old house, and made more room. He did 


ADAM ON A WORKING DAY. 21? 

not like " to part wi’ th’ lad : ” they had hardly ever been sepa* 
rated for more than a day since they were born. 

But Adam had no sooner caught his imagination leaping 
forward in this way — making arrangements for an uncertain 
future — than he checked himself. “ A pretty building I ’m 
making, without either bricks or timber. I ’m up i’ the garret 
already, and have n’t so much as dug the foundation.” When 
ever Adam was strongly convinced of any proposition, it took 
the form of a principle in his mind : it was knowledge to be acted 
on, as much as the knowledge that damp will cause rust. Per 
haps here lay the secret of the hardness he had accused himself 
of : he had too little fellow-feeling with the weakness that errs 
in spite of foreseen consequences. Without this fellow-feeling, 
how are we to get enough patience and charity towards our 
stumbling, falling companions in the long and changeful jour- 
ney ? And there is but one way in which a strong determined 
soul can learn it — by getting his heart-strings bound round 
the weak and erring, so that he must share not only the out' 
ward consequence of their error, but their inward suffering. 
That is a long and hard lesson, and Adam had at present only 
learned the alphabet of it in his father’s sudden death, which, 
by annihilating in an instant all that had stimulated his indig- 
nation, had sent a sudden rush of thought and memory over 
what had claimed his pity and tenderness. 

But it was Adam’s strength, not its correlative hardness, 
that influenced his meditations this morning. He had long 
made up his mind that it would be wrong as well as foolish 
for him to marry a blooming young girl, so long as he had no 
other prospect than that of growing poverty with a growing 
family. And his savings had been so constantly drawn upon 
(besides the terrible sweep of paying for Seth’s substitute in 
the militia), that he had not enough money beforehand to fur- 
nish even a small cottage, and keep something in reserve against 
a rainy day. He had good hope that he should be “ firmer on 
his legs ” by-and-by ; but he could not be satisfied with a vague 
confidence in his arm and brain ; he must have definite plans, 
and set about them at once. The partnership with J onathan 
Burge was not to be thought of at present — there were things 


218 


ADAM BEDE. 


implicitly tacked to it that he could not accept; but Adam 
thought that he and Seth might carry on a little business for 
themselves in addition to their journeyman’s work, by buying 
a small stock of superior wood and making articles of house 
hold furniture, for which Adam had no end of contrivances. 
Seth might gain more by working at separate jobs under 
Adam’s direction than by his journeyman’s work, and Adam 
in his over-hours, could do all the “ nice ” work, that require' 
peculiar skill. The money gained in this way, with the good 
wages he received as foreman, would soon enable them to get 
beforehand with the world, so sparingly as they would all live 
now. No sooner had this little plan shaped itself in his mind 
than he began to be busy with exact calculations about the 
wood to be bought, and the particular article of furniture that 
should be undertaken first — a kitchen cupboard of his own 
contrivance, with such an ingenious arrangement of sliding- 
doors and bolts, such convenient nooks for stowing house- 
hold provender, and such a symmetrical result to the eye, that 
every good housewife would be in raptures with it, and fall 
through all the gradations of melancholy longing till her hus- 
band promised to buy it for her. Adam pictured to himself 
Mrs. Poyser examining it with her keen eye, and trying in vain 
to find out a deficiency ; and, of course, close to Mrs. Poyser 
stood Hetty, and Adam was again beguiled from calculations 
and contrivances into dreams and hopes. Yes, he would go 
and see her this evening — it was so long since he had been 
at the Hall Farm. He would have liked to go to the night* 
school, to see why Bartle Massey had not been at church yes- 
terday, for he feared his old friend was ill ; but, unless he could 
manage both visits, this last must be put off till to-morrow — 
the desire to be near Hetty, and to speak to her again, was too 
strong. 

As he made up his mind to this, he was coming very near 
to the end of his walk, within the sound of the hammers at 
work on the refitting of the old house. The sound of tools to 
a clever workman who loves his work is like the tentative 
sounds of the orchestra to the violinist who has to bear his 
part in the overture : the strong fibres begin their accustomed 


ADAM ON A WORKING DAY. 


219 


thrill, and what was a moment before joy, vexation, or am- 
bition, begins its change into energy. All passion becomes 
strength when it has an outlet from the narrow limits of our 
personal lot in the labor of our right arm, the cunning of our 
right hand, or the still, creative activity of our thought. 
Look at Adam through the rest of the day, as he stands on 
tlie scaffolding with the two-feet ruler in his hand, whistling 
low while he considers how a difficulty about a floor-joist or a 
window-frame is to be overcome ; or as he pushes one of the 
younger workmen aside, and takes his place in upheaving a 
weight of timber, saying, “ Let alone, lad ! thee J st got too 
much gristle i ? thy bones yet j ” or as he fixes his keen black 
eyes on the motions of a workman on the other side of the 
room, and warns him that his distances are not right. Look 
at this broad-shouldered man with the bare muscular arms, 
and the thick firm black hair tossed about like trodden 
meadow-grass whenever he takes off his paper cap, and with 
the strong barytone voice bursting eveiy now and then into 
loud and solemn psalm-tunes, as if seeking an outlet for super- 
fluous strength, yet presently checking himself, apparently 
crossed by some thought which jars with the singing. Per- 
haps, if you had not been already in the secret, you might not 
have guessed what sad memories, what warm affection, what 
tender fluttering hopes, had their home in this athletic body 
with the broken finger-nails — in this rough man, who knew 
no better lyrics than he could find in the Old and New Ver- 
sion and an occasional hymn ; who knew the smallest possible 
amount of profane history ; and for whom the motion and 
shape of the earth, the course of the sun, and the changes of 
the seasons, lay in the region of mystery just made visible by 
fragmentary knowledge. It had cost Adam a great deal of 
trouble, and work in over-hours, to know what he knew over 
and above the secrets of his handicraft, and that acquaintance 
with mechanics and figures, and the nature of the materials 
he worked with, which was made easy to him by inborn in- 
herited faculty — to get the mastery of his pen, and write a 
plain hand, to spell without any other mistakes than must in 
fairness be attributed to the unreasonable character of ortho^ 


220 


ADAM BEDE. 


raphy rather than to any deficiency in the spellex, and, more 
over, to learn his musical notes and part-singing. Beside? 
all this, he had read his Bible, including the apocryphal 
books ; “ Poor Richard’s Almanac,” Taylor’s “ Holy Living and 
Dying,” “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” with Bunyan’s Life and 
“ Holy War,” a great deal of Bailey’s Dictionary, “ Valentine 
and Orson,” and part of a “History of Babylon,” which Bartle 
Massey had lent him. He might have had many more books 
from Bartle Massey, but he had no time for reading the 
“ commin print,” as Lisbeth called it, so busy as he was with 
figures in all the leisure moments which he did not fill up 
with extra carpentry. 

Adam, you perceive, was by no means a marvellous man, 
nor, properly speaking, a genius, yet I will not pretend that 
his was an ordinary character among workmen ; and it would 
not be at all a safe conclusion that the next best man you may 
happen to see with a basket of tools over his shoulder and 
a paper cap on his head has the strong conscience and the 
strong sense, the blended susceptibility and self-command, of 
our friend Adam. He was not an average man. Yet such men 
as he are reared here and there in every generation of our 
peasant artisans — with an inheritance of affections nurtured 
by a simple family life of common need and common industry, 
and an inheritance of faculties trained in skilful courageous 
labor : they make their way upward, rarely as geniuses, most 
commonly as painstaking honest men, with the skill and con- 
science to do well the tasks that lie before them. Their lives 
have no discernible echo beyond the neighborhood where they 
dwelt, but you are almost sure to find there some good piece 
of road, some building, some application of mineral produce, 
some improvement in farming practice, some reform of parish 
abuses, with which their names are associated by one or two 
generations after them. Their employers were the richer for 
them, the work of their hands has worn well, and the work of 
their brains has guided well the hands of other men. They 
went about in their youth in flannel or paper caps, in coats 
black with coal-dust or streaked with lime and red paint ; in 
old age their white hairs are seen in a place of honor ar 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 


221 


church and at market, and they tell their well-dressed sons 
and daughters, seated round the bright hearth on winter 
evenings, how pleased they were when they first earned their 
twopence a-day. Others there are who die poor, and never 
put off the workman’s coat on week-days : they have not had 
the art of getting rich ; but they are men of trust, and when 
they die before the work is all out of them, it is as if some 
main screw had got loose in a machine ; the master who em- 
ployed them says, “ Where shall I find their like ? ” 


CHAPTER XX. 

ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 

Adam came back from his work in the empty wagon ; that 
was wh}' he had changed his clothes, and was ready to set out 
to the Hall Farm when it still wanted a quarter to seven. 

What ’s thee got thy Sunday cloose on for ? ” said Lisbeth, 
complainingly, as he came down-stairs. “ Thee artna goin’ to 
th’ school i’ thy best coat ? ” 

“Xo, mother,” said Adam, quietly. “I’m going to the 
Hall Farm, but mayhap I may go to the school after, so thee 
mustna wonder if I’m a bit late. Seth ’ull be at home in 
half ar hour — he ’s only gone to the village ; so thee wutna 
mind.” 

“ Eh, an’ what ’s thee got thy best cloose on for to go to th* 
Hall Farm ? The Poyser folks see ’d thee in ’em yesterday, I 
warrand. What dost mean by turnin’ worki’day into Sunday 
a-that’n ? It ’s poor keepin’ company wi’ folks as donna like 
to see thee i’ thy workin’ jacket.” 

“ Good-by, mother, I can’t stay,” said Adam, putting on his 
hat and going out. 

But he had no sooner gone a few paces beyond the door 
than Lisbeth became uneasy at the thought that she had 
vexed him. Of course, the secret of her objection to the 
best clothes was her suspicion that they were put on for 


222 


ADAM BEDE. 


Hetty’s sake ; but deeper than all her peevishness lay the 
need that her son should love her. She hurried after him, 
and laid hold of his arm before he had got half-way down to 
the brook, and said, “Nay, my lad, thee wutna go away 
angered wi’ thy mother, an’ her got nought to do but to sit 
by hersen an’ think on thee ? ” 

“Nay, nay, mother,” said Adam, gravely, and standing still 
while he put his arm on her shoulder, “I’m not angered. 
But I wish, for thy own sake, thee ’dst be more contented to 
let me do what I ’ve made up my mind to do. I ’ll never be 
no other than a good son to thee as long as we live. But a 
man has other feelings besides what he owes to ’s father and 
mother ; and thee oughtna to want to rule over me body and 
soul. And thee must make up thy mind, as I ’ll not give way 
to thee where I ’ve a right to do what I like. So let us have 
no more words about it.” 

“ Eh,” said Lisbeth, not willing to show that she felt the 
real bearing of Adam’s words, “ an’ who likes to see thee i’ 
thy best cloose better nor thy mother ? An’ when thee ’st got 
thy face washed as clean as the smooth white pibble, an’ thy 
hair combed so nice, and thy eyes a-sparklin’ — what else is 
there as thy old mother should like to look at half so well ? 
An’ thee sha’t put on thy Sunday cloose when thee lik’st for 
me — I ’ll ne’er plague thee no moor about ’n.” 

“Well, well ; good-by, mother,” said Adam, kissing her, 
and hurrying away. He saw there was no other means of 
putting an end to the dialogue. Lisbeth stood still on the 
spot, shading her eyes and looking after him till he was quite 
out of sight. She felt to the full all the meaning that had 
lain in Adam’s words, and, as she lost sight of him and turned 
back slowly into the house, she said aloud to herself — for 
it was her way to speak her thoughts aloud in the long days 
when her husband and sons were at their work — “ Eh, he ’ll 
be tellin’ me as he ’s goin’ to bring her home one o’ these 
days ; an’ she ’ll be missis o’er me, and I mun look on, belike, 
while she uses the blue-edged platters, and breaks ’em, may- 
hap, though there ’s ne’er been one broke sin’ my old man an’ 
me bought ’em at the fair twenty ’ear come next Whissuntide 


* ■ 


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Mrs. Poyser’s Farm from the Back 















































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p 



































































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223 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 

Eh ! she went on, still louder, as she caught up her knitting 
from the table, “but she’ll ne’er knit the lads’ stockins, nor 
foot ’em nay ther, while I live ; an’ when I ’m gone, he ’ll be- 
think him as nobody ’ull ne’er fit ’s leg an’ foot as his old 
mother did. She ’ll know nothin’ o’ narrowin’ an’ heelin’, I 
warrand, an’ she ’ll make a long toe as he canna get ’s boot on. 
That s what comes o’ marr’in’ young wenches. I war gone 
thirty, an’ th’ feyther too, afore we war married ; an’ young 
e nough too. She ’ll be a poor dratchell by then she ’ s thirty, 
a-marr’in’ a-that’n, afore her teeth, ’s all come.” 

Adam walked so fast that he was at the yard-gate before 
seven. Martin Poyser and the grandfather were not yet come 
in from the meadow; every one was in the meadow, even to 
the black-and-tan terrier — no one kept watch in the yard but 
the bull-dog ; and when Adam reached the house-door, which 
stood wide open, he saw there was no one in the bright clean 
house-place. But he guessed where Mrs. Poyser and some 
one else would be, quite within hearing ; so he knocked on the 
door and said in his strong voice, “Mrs. Poyser within ?” 

“ Come in, Mr. Bede, come in,” Mrs. Poyser called out from 
the dairy. She always gave Adam this title when she received 
him in her own house. “ You may come into the dairy if you 
will, for I canna justly leave the cheese.” 

Adam walked into the dairy, where Mrs. Poyser and Nancy 
were crushing the first evening cheese. 

“Why, you might think you war come to a dead-house,” 
said Mrs. Poyser, as he stood in the open doorway; “they’re 
all i’ the meadow ; but Martin ’s sure to be in afore long, for 
they ’re leaving the hay cocked to-night, ready for carrying 
first thing to-morrow. I ’ve been forced t’ have Nancy in, 
upo’ ’count as Hetty must gether the red currants to-night; 
the fruit allays ripens so contrairy, just when every hand’s 
wanted. An’ there ’s no trustin’ the children to gether it, for 
they put more into their own mouths nor into the basket: 
you might as well set the wasps to gether the fruit.” 

Adam longed to say he would go into the garden till Mr. 
Poyser came in, but he was not quite courageous enough, so 
he said, “I could be looking at your spinning-wheel, then, and 


224 


ADAM BEDE. 


see what wants doing to it. Perhaps it stands in the house, 
wnere I can find it ? ” 

“No, I’ve put it away in the right-hand parlor; but let it 
be till I can fetch it and show it you. I ’d be glad now, if 
you’d go into the garden, and tell Hetty to send Totty in. 
The child ’ull run in if she ’s told, an’ I know Hetty ’s lettin’ 
her eat too many currans. I ’ll be much obliged to you, Mr. 
Bede, if you ’ll go and send her in ; an’ there ’s the York and 
Lankester roses beautiful in the garden now — you ’ll like to 
see ’em. But you ’d like a drink o’ whey first, p’r’aps ; I know 
you’re fond o’ whey, as most folks is when they hanna got to 
crush it out.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said Adam ; “ a drink o’ whey ’s 
allays a treat to me. I ’d rather have it than beer any day.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Mrs. Poyser, reaching a small white basin 
that stood on the shelf, and dipping it into the whey -tub, “ the 
smell o’ bread ’s sweet t' everybody but the baker. The Miss 
Irwines allays say, ‘ Oh, Mrs. Poyser, I envy you your dairy ; 
and I envy you your chickens ; and what a beautiful thing a 
farmhouse is, to be sure !’ An’ I say, ‘Yes ; a farmhouse is 
a fine thing for them as look on, an’ don’t know the liftin’, an’ 
the stannin’, and the worritin’ o’ th’ inside, as belongs to ’t.’ ” 

“ Why, Mrs. Poyser, you would n’t like to live anywhere 
else but in a farmhouse, so well as you manage it,” said Adam, 
taking the basin ; “ and there can be nothing to look at pleas* 
anter nor a fine milch cow, standing up to ’ts knees in pasture, 
and the new milk frothing in the pail, and the fresh butter 
ready for market, and the calves, and the poultry. Here ’s te 
your health, and may you allays have strength to look after 
your own dairy, and set a pattern t’ all the farmers’ wives in 
the country.” 

Mrs. Poyser was not to be caught in the weakness of smil- 
ing at a compliment, but a quiet complacency overspread her 
face like a stealing sunbeam, and gave a milder glance than 
usual to her blue-gray eyes, as she looked at Adam drinking 
the whey. Ah ! I think I taste that whey now — with a fla- 
vor so delicate that one can hardly distinguish it from an odor,, 
and with that soft gliding warmth that fills one’s imagination 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 


225 


with a still, happy dreaminess. And the light music of the 
dropping whey is in my ears, mingling with the twittering o2 
a bird outside the wire network window — the window over- 
looking the garden, and shaded by tall Gueldres roses. 

“ Have a little more, Mr. Bede ? ” said Mrs. Poyser, as 
Adam set down the basin. 

“No, thank you ; I'll go into the garden now, and send in 
the little lass.” 

“ Ay, do ; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy.” 

Adam walked round by the rick-yard, at present empty oi 
ricks, to the little wooden gate leading into the garden — once 
the well-tended kitchen-garden of a manor-house ; now, but for 
the handsome brick wall with stone coping that ran along one 
side of it, a true farmhouse garden, with hardy perennial 
flowers, unpruned fruit-trees, and kitchen vegetables growing 
together in careless, half-neglected abundance. In that leafy, 
flowery, bushy time, to look for any one in this garden was like 
playing at “hide-and-seek.” There were the tall hollyhocks 
beginning to flower, and dazzle the eye with their pink, white, 
and yellow ; there were the syringas and Gueldres roses, all 
large and disorderly for want of trimming ; there were leafy 
walls of scarlet beans and late peas ; there was a row of bushy 
filberts in one direction, and in another a huge apple-tree mak- 
ing a barren circle under its low-spreading boughs. But what 
signified a barren patch or two ? The garden was so large. 
There was always a superfluity of broad beans — it took nine 
or ten of Adam’s strides to get to the end of the uncut grass 
walk that ran by the side of them ; and as for other vegetables, 
there was so much more room than was necessary for them, 
that in the rotation of crops a large flourishing bed of ground- 
sel was of yearly occurrence on one spot or other. The very 
rose-trees, at which Adam stopped to pluck one, looked as if 
they grew wild ; they were all huddled together in bushy 
masses, now flaunting with wide-open petals, almost all of 
them of the streaked pink-and-white kind, which doubtless 
dated from the union of the houses of York and Lancaster. 
Adam was wise enough to choose a compact Provence rose 
that peeped out half smothered by its flaunting scentless 


226 


ADAM BEDE. 


neighbors, and held it in his hand — he thought he should be 
more at ease holding something in his hand — as he walked 
on to the far end of the garden, where he remembered there 
was the largest row of currant-trees, not far off from the great 
yew-tree arbor. 

But he had not gone many steps beyond the roses, when he 
heard the shaking of a bough, and a boy’s voice saying — ■ 

“Now, then, Totty, hold out your pinny — there ’s a duck.” 

The voice came from the boughs of a tall cherry-tree, where 
Adam had no difficulty in discerning a small blue-pinafored 
figure perched in a commodious position where the fruit was 
thickest. Doubtless Totty was below, behind the screen of 
peas. Yes — with her bonnet hanging down her back, and 
her fat face, dreadfully smeared with red juice, turned up 
towards the cherry-tree, while slie held her little round hole 
of a mouth and her red-stained pinafore to receive the prom- 
ised downfall. I am sorry to say, more than half the cherries 
that fell were hard and yellow instead of juicy and red ; but 
Totty spent no time in useless regrets, and she was already 
sucking the third juiciest when Adam said, “ There now, Totty, 
you’ve got your cherries. Run into the house with ’em to 
mother — she wants you — she ’s in the dairy. Run in this 
minute — there ’s a good little girl.” 

He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he 
spoke, a ceremony which Totty regarded as a tiresome inter- 
ruption to cherry-eating ; and when he set her down she trotted 
off quite silently towards the house, sucking her cherries as 
she went along. 

“ Tommy, my lad, take care you ’re not shot for a little 
thieving bird,” said Adam, as he walked on towards the 
currant-trees. 

He could see there was a large basket at the end of the row : 
Hetty would not be far off, and Adam already felt as if she 
were looking at him. Yet when he turned the corner she was 
standing with her back towards him, and stooping to gather 
the low-hanging fruit. Strange that she had not heard him 
coming! perhaps it was because she was making the leaves 
rustle. She started when she became conscious that some one 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 


227 


was near — * started so violently that she dropped the basin with 
the currants in it, and then, when she saw it was Adam, she 
turned from pale to deep red. That blush made his heart beat 
with a new happiness. Hetty had never blushed at seeing him 
before. 

“I frightened you,” he said, with a delicious sense that it 
didn’t signify what he said, since Hetty seemed to feel as 
much as he did; “let me pick the currants up.” 

That was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled 
mass on the grass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave her the 
basin again, looked straight into her eyes with the subdued 
tenderness that belongs to the first moments of hopeful love. 

Hetty did not turn away her eyes ; her blush had subsided, 
and she met his glance with a quiet sadness, which contented 
Adam, because it was so unlike anything he had seen in her 
before. 

“ There ’s not many more currants to get,” she said ; “ I shall 
soon ha’ done now.” 

“ I ’ll help you,” said Adam ; and he fetched the large 
basket which was nearly full of currants, and set it close to 
them. 

Not a word more was spoken as they gathered the currants. 
Adam’s heart was too full to speak, and he thought Hetty 
knew all that was in it. She was not indifferent to his pres- 
ence after all ; she had blushed when she saw him, and then 
there was that touch of sadness about her which must surely 
mean love, since it was the opposite of her usual manner, which 
had often impressed him as indifference. And he could glance 
at her continually as she bent over the fruit, while the level 
evening sunbeams stole through the thick apple-tree boughs, 
and rested on her round cheek and neck as if they too were in 
love with her. It was to Adam the time that a man can least 
forget in after-life, — the time when he believes that the first 
woman he has ever loved betrays by a slight something — a 
word, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or an eyelid — 
that she is at least beginning to love him in return. The sign 
is so slight, it is scarcely perceptible to the ear or eye — he 
could describe it to nc one — it is a mere feather-touch, yet it 


228 


ADAM BEDE. 


seems to have changed his whole being, to have merged an 
uneasy yearning into a delicious unconsciousness of everything 
but the present moment. So much of our early gladness van- 
ishes utterly from our memory : we can never recall the joy 
with which we laid our heads on our mother’s bosom or rode 
on our father’s back in childhood ; doubtless that joy is 
wrought up into our nature, as the sunlight of long-past morn- 
ings is wrought up in the soft mellowness of the apricot ; but 
it is gone forever from our imagination, and we can only believe 
in the joy of childhood. But the first glad moment in our 
first love is a vision which returns to us to the last, and brings 
with it a thrill of feeling intense and special as the recurrent 
sensation of a sweet odor breathed in a far-off hour of happi- 
ness. It is a memory that gives a more exquisite touch to 
tenderness, that feeds the madness of jealousy, and adds the 
last keenness to the agony of despair. 

Hetty bending over the red bunches, the level rays piercing 
the screen of apple-tree boughs, the length of bushy garden 
beyond, his own emotion as he looked at her and believed that 
she was thinking of him, and that there was no need for them 
to talk — Adam remembered it all to the last moment of his 
life. 

And Hetty ? You know quite well that Adam was mistaken 
about her. Like many other men, he thought the signs of 
love for another were signs of love towards himself. When 
Adam was approaching unseen by her, she was absorbed as 
usual in thinking and wondering about Arthur’s possible 
return : the sound of any man’s footstep would have affected 
her just in the same way — she would have felt it might be 
Arthur before she had time to see, and the blood that forsook 
her cheek in the agitation of that momentary feeling would 
have rushed back again at the sight of any one else just as 
much as at the sight of Adam. He was not wrong in thinking 
that a change had come over Hetty : the anxieties and fears 
of a first passion, with which she was trembling, had become 
stronger than vanity, had given her for the first time that sense 
of helpless dependence on another’s feeling which awakens the 
clinging deprecating womanhood even in the shallowest girl 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 229 

that can ever experience it, and creates in her a sensibility to 
kindness which found her quite hard before. For the first 
time Hetty felt that there was something soothing to her in 
Adam's timid yet manly tenderness : she wanted to be treated 
lovingly — oh, it was very hard to bear this blank of absence, 
silence, apparent indifference, after those moments of glowing 
love ! She was not afraid that Adam would tease her with 
love-making and flattering speeches like her other admirers : 
he had always been so reserved to her : she could enjoy with- 
out any fear the sense that this strong brave man loved her 
and was near her. It never entered into her mind that Adam 
was pitiable too — that Adam, too, must suffer one day. 

Hetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved 
more gently to the man who loved her in vain, because she 
had herself begun to love another. It was a very old story ; 
but Adam knew nothing about it, so he drank in the sweet 
delusion. 

“ That'll do," said Hetty, after a little while. “ Aunt wants 
me to leave some on the trees. I'll take 'em in now." 

“ It's very well I came to carry the basket," said Adam, 
“for it 'ud ha' been too heavy for your little arms." 

“ Ho ; I could ha' carried it with both hands." 

“ Oh, I dare say," said Adam, smiling, “ and been as long 
getting into the house as a little ant carrying a caterpillar. 
Have you ever seen those tiny fellows carrying things four 
times as big as themselves ? " 

“Ho," said Hetty, indifferently, not caring to know the 
difficulties of ant-life. 

“ Oh, I used to watch 'em often when I was a lad. But now, 
you see, I can carry the basket with one arm, as if it was an 
empty nutshell, and give you tlx' other arm to lean on. Won't 
you ? Such big arms as mine were made for little arms like 
yours to lean on." 

Hetty smiled faintly, and put her arm within his. Adam 
looked down at her, but her eyes were turned dreamily towards 
another corner of the garden. 

“ Have you ever been to Eagledale ?" she said, as they walked 
slowly along. 


230 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Yes,” said Adam, pleased to have her ask a question about 
himself ; “ten years ago, when I was a lad, I went with father 
to see about some work there. It ’s a wonderful sight — rocks 
and caves such as you never saw in your life. I never had a 
right notion o’ rocks till I went there.” 

“ How long did it take to get there ? ” 

“ Why, it took us the best part o’ two days’ walking. But 
it ’s nothing of a day’s journey for anybody as has got a first- 
rate nag. The Captain ’ud get there in nine or ten hours, I ’ll 
be bound, he ’s such a rider. And I should n’t wonder if he ’s 
back again to-morrow ; he ’s too active to rest long in that 
lonely place, all by himself, for there ’s nothing but a bit of a 
inn i’ that part where he ’s gone to fish. I wish he ’d got th’ 
estate in his hands ; that ’ud be the right thing for him, for it 
’ud give him plenty to do, and he ’d do ’t well too, for all he ’s 
so young ; he ’s got better notions o’ things than many a man 
twice his age. He spoke very handsome to me th’ other day 
about lending me money to set up i’ business ; and if things 
came round that way, I ’d rather be beholding to him nor to 
any man i’ the world.” 

Poor Adam was led on to speak about Arthur because he 
thought Hetty would be pleased to know that the young squire 
was so ready to befriend him ; the fact entered into his future 
prospects, which he would like to seem promising in her eyes. 
And it was true that Hetty listened with an interest which 
brought a new light into her eyes and a half smile upon her 
lips. 

“ How pretty the roses are now ! ” Adam continued, pausing 
to look at them “ See ! I stole the prettiest, but I didna mean 
to keep it myself. I think these as are all pink, and have got 
a finer sort o’ green leaves, are prettier than the striped uns, 
don’t you ? ” 

He set down the basket, and took the rose from his button- 
hole. 

“It smells very sweet,” he said; “those striped uns have 
no smell. Stick it in your frock, and then you can put it in 
water after. It ’ud be a pity to let it fade.” 

Hetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 


231 


thought that Arthur could so soon get back if he liked. There 
was a flash of hope and happiness in her mind, and with a 
sudden impulse of gayety she did what she had very often done 
before — - stuck the rose in her hair a little above the left ear. 
The tender admiration in Adam’s face was slightly shadowed 
by reluctant disapproval. Hetty’s love of finery was just the 
thing that would most provoke his mother, and he himself dis- 
liked it as much as it was possible for him to dislike anything 
that belonged to her. 

“ Ah,” he said, “ that ’s like the ladies in the pictures at ohe 
Chase ; they ’ve mostly got flowers or feathers or gold things 
i’ their hair, but somehow I don’t like to see ’em : they allays 
put me i’ mind o’ the painted women outside the shows at 
Treddles’on fair. What can a woman have to set her off better 
than her own hair, when it curls so, like yours ? If a woman’s 
young and pretty, I think you can see her good looks all the 
better for her being plain dressed. Why, Dinah Morris looks 
very nice, for all she wears such a plain cap and gown. It 
seems to me as a woman’s face doesna want flowers ; it ’s almost 
like a flower itself. I ’m sure yours is.” 

“ Oh, very well,” said Hetty, with a little playful pout, taking 
the rose out of her hair. “ I ’ll put one o’ Dinah’s caps on 
when we go in, and you ’ll see if I look better in it. She left 
one behind, so I can take the pattern.” 

“ Hay, nay, I don’t want you to wear a Methodist cap like 
Dinah’s. I dare say it ’s a very ugly cap, and I used to think 
when I saw her here, as it was nonsense for her to dress dif- 
ferent t’ other people ; but I never rightly noticed her till 
she came to see mother last week, and then I thought the cap 
seemed to fit her face somehow as th’ acorn-cup fits th’ acorn, 
and I should n’t like to see her so well without it. But you ’ve 
got another sort o’ face ; I ’d have you just as you are now, 
without anything t’ interfere with your own looks. It ’s like 
when a man ’s singing a good tune, you don’t want t’ hear bells 
tinkling and interfering wi’ the sound.” 

He took her arm and put it within his again, looking down 
on her fondly. . He was afraid she should think he had lectured 
her; imagining, as we are apt to do, that she had perceived all 


232 


ADAM BEDE. 


the thoughts he had only half expressed. And the thing he 
dreaded most was lest any cloud should come over this even- 
ing’s happiness. For the world he would not have spoken of 
his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kindness towards 
him should have grown into unmistakable love. In his imagi- 
nation he saw long years of his future life stretching before 
him, blest with the right to call Hetty his own : he could be 
content with very little at present. So he took up the basket 
of currants once more, and they went on towards the house. 

The scene had quite changed in the half-hour that Adam 
had been in the garden. The yard was full of life now : 
Marty was letting the screaming geese through the gate, and 
wickedly provoking the gander by hissing at him ; the granary- 
door was groaning on its hinges as Alick shut it, after dealing 
out the corn; the horses were being led out to watering, 
amidst much barking of all the three dogs, and many “ whups ” 
from Tim the ploughman, as if the heavy animals who held 
down their meek, intelligent heads, and lifted their shaggy 
feet so deliberately, were likely to rush wildly in every direc- 
tion but the right. Everybody was come back from the 
meadow ; and when Hetty and Adam entered the house-place, 
Mr. Poyser was seated in the three-cornered chair, and the 
grandfather in the large arm-chair opposite, looking on with 
pleasant expectation while the supper was being laid on the 
oak table. Mrs. Poyser had laid the cloth herself — a cloth 
made of homespun linen, with a shining checkered pattern on 
it, and of an agreeable whitey-brown hue, such as all sensible 
housewives like to see — none of your bleached “ shop-rag ’ ? 
that would wear into holes in no time, but good homespun 
that would last for two generations. The cold veal, the fresh 
lettuces, and the stuffed chine, might well look tempting to 
hungry men who had dined at half-past twelve o’clock. On 
the large deal table against the wall there were bright pewter 
plates and spoons and cans, ready for Alick and his com- 
panions ; for the master and servants ate their supper not far 
off each other ; which was all the pleasanter, because if a 
remark about to-morrow morning’s work occurred to Mr 
Poyser, Alick was at hand to hear it. 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 


233 


“Well, Adam, I’m glad to see ye,” said Mr. Poyser. 
‘ What ! ye ’ve been helping Hetty to getlier the currans, eh ? 
Pome, sit ye down, sit ye down. Why, it’s pretty near a 
three-week since y’ had your supper with us ; and the missis 
has got one of her rare stuffed chines. I ’m glad ye he 
come.” 

“ Hetty,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she looked into the basket of 
currants to see if the fruit was fine, “ run up-stairs, and send 
Molly down. She ’s putting Totty to bed, and I want her to 
draw th’ ale, for Nancy ’s busy yet i’ the dairy. You can see 
to the child. But whativer did you let her run away from 
you along wi’ Tommy for, and stuff herself wi’ fruit as she 
can’t eat a bit o’ good victual ? ” 

This was said in a lower tone than usual, while her husband 
was talking to Adam ; for Mrs. Poyser was strict in adherence 
to her own rules of propriety, and she considered that a young 
girl was not to be treated sharply in the presence of a re- 
spectable man who was courting her. That would not be 
fair-play : every woman was young in her turn, and had her 
chances of matrimony, which it was a point of honor for 
other women not to spoil — just as one market-woman who 
has sold her own eggs must not try to balk another of a 
customer. 

Hetty made haste to run away up-stairs, not easily finding 
an answer to her aunt’s question, and Mrs. Poyser went out 
to see after Marty and Tommy, and bring them in to supper. 

Soon they were all seated — the two rosy lads, one on each 
side, by the pale mother, a place being left for Hetty between 
Adam and her uncle. Alick too was come in, and was seated 
in his far corner, eating cold broad beans out of a large dish 
with his pocket-knife, and finding a flavor in them which he 
would not have exchanged for the finest pine-apple. 

“ What a time that gell is drawing th’ ale, to be sure J ” 
said Mrs. Poyser, when she was dispensing her slices of 
stuffed chine. “ I think she sets the jug under and forgets to 
turn the tap, as there’s nothing you can’t believe o’ them 
wenches: they’ll set the empty kettle o’ the fire, and then 
come an hour after to see if the water boils.” 


23 I 


ADAM BEDE. 


iC She 9 s drawin’ for the men too,” said Mr. Poyser. “ Thee 
shouldst ha’ told her to bring onr jug up first.” 

“ Told her ? ” said Mrs. Poyser : “ yes, I might spend all 
the wind i’ my body, an’ take the bellows too, if I was to tell 
them gells everything as their own sharpness wonna tell ’em. 
Mr. Bede, will you take some vinegar with your lettuce ? 
Ay, you ’re i’ the right not. It spoils the flavor o’ the chine, 
to my thinking. It ’s poor eating where the flavor o’ the meat 
lies i’ the cruets. There ’s folks as make bad butter, and 
trusten to the salt t’ hide it.” 

Mrs. Poyser’s attention was here diverted by the appearance 
of Molly, carrying a large jug, two small mugs, and four 
drinking-cans, all full of ale or small beer — an interesting 
example of the prehensile power possessed by the human 
hand. Poor Molly’s mouth was rather wider open than usual, 
as she walked along with her eyes fixed on the double cluster 
of vessels in her hands, quite innocent of the expression in 
her mistress’s eye. 

“ Molly, I niver knew your equils — to think o’ your poor 
mother as is a widow, an’ I took you wi’ as good as no char- 
acter, an’ the times an’ times I ’ve told you — ” 

Molly had not seen the lightning, and the thunder shook 
her nerves the more for the want of that preparation. With 
a vague alarmed sense that she must somehow comport 
herself differently, she hastened her step a little towards 
the far deal table, where she might set down her cans — 
caught her foot in her apron, which had become untied, and 
fell with a crash and a splash into a pool of beer; where- 
upon a tittering explosion from Marty and Tommy, and a 
serious “ Elio ! ” from Mr. Poyser, who saw his draught of ale 
unpleasantly deferred. 

“ There you go ! ” resumed Mrs. Poyser, in a cutting tone, 
as she rose and went towards the cupboard while Molly began 
dolefully to pick up the fragments of pottery. “ It ’s what I 
told you ’ud come, over and over again ; and there ’s your 
month’s wage gone, and more, to pay for that jug as I’ve had 
i’ the house this ten year, and nothing ever happened to t 
before ; but the crockery you ’ve broke sin’ here in th’ house 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 


235 


you’ve been ’ud make a parson swear — God forgi’ me for 
saying so ; an’ if it had been boiling wort out o’ the copper, it 
hid ha’ been the same, and you ’d ha’ been scalded, and very 
like lamed for life, as there’s no knowing but what you will 
be some day if you go on, for anybody ’ud think you’d got 
the St. Vitus’s Dance, to see the things you’ve throwed down. 
It’ s a pity but what the bits was stacked up for you to see, 
though it ’s neither seeing nor hearing as ’ull make much 
odds to you — anybody ’ud think you war case-hardened.” 

Poor Molly’s tears were dropping fast by this time, and in 
her desperation at the lively movement of the beer-stream 
towards Alick’s legs, she was converting her apron into a 
mop, while Mrs. Poyser, opening the cupboard, turned a 
blighting eye upon her. 

“ Ah,” she went on, “ you ’ll do no good wi’ crying an’ mak- 
ing more wet to wipe up. It ’s all your own wilfulness, as I 
tell you, for there ’s nobody no call to break anything if they ’ll 
only go the right way to work. But wooden folks had need 
ha’ wooden things t’ handle. And here must I take the brown- 
and-white jug, as it ’s niver been used three times this year, 
and go down i’ the cellar myself, and belike catch my death, 
and be laid up wi’ inflammation — ” 

Mrs. Poyser had turned round from the cupboard with the 
brown-and-white jug in her hand, when she caught sight of 
something at the other end of the kitchen ; perhaps it was 
because she was already trembling and nervous that the appa- 
rition had so strong an effect on her: perhaps jug-breaking, 
like other crimes, has a contagious influence. However it 
was, she stared and started like a ghost-seer, and the precious 
brown-and-white jug fell to the ground, parting forever with 
its spout and handle. 

“ Did ever anybody see the like ? ” she said, with a suddenly 
lowered tone, after a moment’s bewildered glance round the 
room. “ The jugs are bewitched, I think. It ’s them nasty 
glazed handles — they slip o’er the finger like a snail.” 

“ Why, thee ’st let thy own whip fly i’ thy face,” said her 
husband, who had now joined in the laugh of the young ones. 

“ It ’s all very fine to look on and grin,” rejoined Mrs. 


236 


ADAM BEDE. 


Poyser ; “ but there ’s times when the crockery seems alive, 
an’ flies out o’ your hand like a bird. It ’s like the glass, 
sometimes, ’ull crack as it stands. What is to be broke will 
be broke, for I never dropped a thing i’ my life for want o’ 
holding it, else I should never ha’ kept the crockery all these 
’ears as I bought at my own wedding. And Hetty, are you 
mad ? Whativer do you mean by coming down i’ that way, 
and making one think as there’s a ghost a- walking i’ th r 
house ? ” 

A new outbreak of laughter, while Mrs. Poyser was speak- 
ing, was caused, less by her sudden conversion to a fatalistic 
view of jug-breaking, than by that strange appearance of 
Hetty, which had startled her aunt. The little minx had 
found a black gown of her aunt’s, and pinned it close round 
her neck to look like Dinah’s, had made her hair as flat as sh« 
could, and had tied on one of Dinah’s high-crowned borderless 
net-caps. The thought of Dinah’s pale grave face and mild 
gray eyes, which the sight of the gown and cap brought with 
it, made it a laughable surprise enough to see them replaced 
by Hetty’s round rosy cheeks and coquettish dark eyes. The 
boys got off their chairs and jumped round her, clapping their 
hands, and even Alick gave a low ventral laugh as he looked 
up from his beans. Under cover of the noise, Mrs. Poyser 
went into the back-kitchen to send Haney into the cellar with 
the great pewter measure, which had some chance of being 
free from bewitchment. 

“ Why, Hetty, lass, are ye turned Methodist ? ” said Mr. 
Poyser, with that comfortable slow enjoyment of a laugh 
which one only sees in stout people. “ You must pull your 
face a deal longer before you ’ll do for one ; mustna she, Adam ? 
Plow come you to put them things on, eh ? ” 

“ Adam said he liked Dinah’s cap and gown better nor my 
clothes,” said Hetty, sitting down demurely. “He says folks 
look better in ugly clothes.” 

“Hay, nay,” said Adam, looking at her admiringly; “I 
only said they seemed to suit Dinah. But if I ’d said you ’d 
look pretty in ’em. I should ha’ said nothing but what was 
true.” 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 


237 


*' Why, thee thought’st Hetty war a ghost, didstna ? ” said 
Mr. Poyser to his wife, who now came back and took her seat 
again. “ Thee look’dst as scared as scared.” 

“ It little sinnifies how I looked,” said Mrs. Poyser ; “ looks 
’ull mend no jugs, nor laughing neither, as I see. Mr. Bede, 
I ’in sorry you ’ve to wait so long for your ale, but it ’s coming 
in a minute. Make yourself at home wi’ th’ cold potatoes : 
I know you like ’em. Tommy, I’ll send you to bed this 
minute, if you don’t give over laughing. What is there to 
laugh at, I should like to know ? I ’d sooner cry nor laugh 
at the sight o’ that poor thing’s cap ; and there ’s them as ’ud 
be better if they could make theirselves like her i’ more ways 
nor putting on her cap. It little becomes anybody i’ this 
house to make fun o’ my sister’s child, an’ her just gone away 
from us, as it went to my heart to part wi’ her : an’ I know 
one thing, as if trouble was to come, an’ I was to be laid up i’ 
my bed, an’ the children was to die — as there ’s no knowing 
but what they will — an’ the murrain was to come among the 
cattle again, an’ everything went to rack an’ ruin — I say we 
might be glad to get sight o’ Dinah’s cap again, wi’ her own 
face under it, border or no border. For she ’s one o’ them 
things as looks the brightest on a rainy day, and loves you the 
best when you ’re most i’ need on ’t.” 

Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, was aware that nothing would be 
so likely to expel the comic as the terrible. Tommy, who was 
of a susceptible disposition, and very fond of his mother, and 
who had, besides, eaten so many cherries as to have his feel- 
ings less under command than usual, was so affected by the 
dreadful picture she had made of the possible future, that he 
began to cry ; and the good-natured father, indulgent to all 
weaknesses but those of negligent farmers, said to Hetty — 

“ You ’d better take the things off again, my lass ; it hurts 
your aunt to see ’em.” 

Hetty went up-stairs again, and the arrival of the ale made 
an agreeable diversion ; for Adam had to give his opinion of 
the new tap, which could not be otherwise than complimentary 
to Mr3. Poyser ; and then followed a discussion on the secrets 
of good brewing, the folly of stinginess in “ hopping,” and the 


288 


ADAM BEDE. 


doubtful economy of a farmer’s making his own malt. Mrs t 
Poyser had so many opportunities of expressing herself with 
weight on these subjects, that by the time supper was ended, 
the ale-jug refilled, and Mr. Poyser’s pipe alight, she was once 
more in high good-humor, and ready, at Adam’s request, to 
fetch the broken spinning-wheel for his inspection. 

“ Ah,” said Adam, looking at it carefully, “ here ’s a nice bit 
o’ turning wanted. It ’s a pretty wheel. I must have it up 
at the turning-shop in the village, and do it there, for I’ve 
no convenence for turning at home. If you ’ll send it to 
Mr. Burge’s shop i’ the morning, I ’ll get it done for you by 
Wednesday. I ’ve been turning it over in my mind,” he con- 
tinued, looking at Mr. Poyser, “ to make a bit more convenence 
at home for nice jobs o’ cabinet-making. I ’ve always done a 
deal at such little things in odd hours, and they ’re profitable, 
for there ’s more workmanship nor material in ’em. I look 
for me and Seth to get a little business for ourselves i’ that 
way, for I know a man at Rosseter as ’ull take as many things 
as we should make, besides what we could get orders for round 
about.” 

Mr. Poyser entered with interest into a project which seemed 
a step towards Adam’s becoming a “ master-man ; ” and Mrs. 
Poyser gave her approbation to the scheme of the movable 
kitchen cupboard, which was to be capable of containing gro- 
cery, pickles, crockery, and house-linen, in the utmost com- 
pactness, without confusion. Hetty, once more in her own 
dress, with her neckerchief pushed a little backwards on this 
vrarm evening, was seated picking currants near the window, 
where Adam could see her quite well. And so the time passed 
pleasantly till Adam got up to go. He was pressed to come 
again soon, but not to stay longer, for at this busy time sen- 
sible people would not run the risk of being sleepy at five 
o’clock in the morning. 

“ I shall take a step farther,” said Adam, “ and go on to see 
Mester Massey, for he was n’t at church yesterday, and I ’ve 
not seen him for a week past. I ’ve never hardly known him 
to miss church before.” 

“Ay,” said Mr. Poyser, “we’ve heared nothing about him s 


ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 239 

for it ’s the boys’ hollodays now, so we can give you no ac. 
count.” 

“ But you ’ll niver think o’ going there at this hour o’ tho 
night ? ” said Mrs. Poyser, folding up her knitting. 

“ Oh, Mester Massey sits up late,” said Adam. “ An’ the 
night-school ’s not over yet. Some o’ the men don’t come till 
late — they ’ve got so far to walk. And Bartle himself ’s 
never in bed till it ’s gone eleven.” 

“I wouldna have him to live wi’ me, then,” said Mrs. 
Poyser, “ a-dropping candle-grease about, as you ’re like to 
tumble down o’ the floor the first thing i’ the morning.” 

“ Ay, eleven o’clock ’s late — it ’s late,” said old Martin. 
“ I ne’er sot up so i’ my life, not to say as it warna a marr’in’, 
or a christenin’, or a wake, or th’ harvest supper. Eleven 
o’clock ’s late.” 

“ Why, I sit up till after twelve often,” said Adam, laughing, 
“ but it is n’t t’ eat and drink extry, it ’s to work extry. Good- 
night, Mrs. Poyser ; good-night, Hetty.” 

Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were 
dyed and damp with currant-juice ; but all the rest gave a 
hearty shake to the large palm that was held out to them, and 
said, “ Come again, come again ! ” 

“ Ay, think o’ that now,” said Mr. Poyser, when Adam was 
out on the causeway. “ Sitting up till past twelve to do extry 
work ! Ye ’ll not find many men o’ six-an’-twenty as ’ull do 
to put i’ the shafts wi’ him. If you can catch Adam for a 
husband, Hetty, you ’ll ride i’ your own spring-cart some day, 
I ’ll be your warrant.” 

> Hetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants, so 
her uncle did not see the little toss of the head with which 
she answered him. To ride in a spring-cart seemed a very 
miserable lot indeed to her now. 


240 


ADAM BEDE. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

Bartle Massey’s was one of a few scattered houses on the 
edge of a common, which was divided by the road to Treddles- 
ton. Adam reached .it in a quarter of an hour after leaving 
the Hall Farm ; and when he had his hand on the door-latch, 
he could see, through the curtainless window, that there were 
eight or nine heads bending over the desks, lighted by thin 
dips. 

When he entered, a reading lesson was going forward, and 
Bartle Massey merely nodded, leaving him to take his place 
where he pleased. He had not come for the sake of a lesson 
to-night, and his mind was too full of personal matters, too 
full of the last two hours he had passed in Hetty’s presence, 
for him to amuse himself with a book till school was over ; so 
he sat down in a corner, and looked on with an absent mind. 
It was a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly 
for years ; he knew by heart every arabesque flourish in the 
framed specimen of Bartle Massey’s handwriting which hung 
over the schoolmaster’s head, by way of keeping a lofty ideal 
before the minds of his pupils ; he knew the backs of all the 
books on the shelf running along the whitewashed wall above 
the pegs for the slates; he knew exactly how many grains 
were gone out of the ear of J.ndian-corn that hung from one of 
the rafters ; he had long ago exhausted the resources of his 
imagination in trying to think how the bunch of leathery sea- 
weed had looked and grown in its native element ; and from 
the place where he sat, he could make nothing of the old map 
of England that hung against the opposite wall, for age had 
turned it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a well- 
seasoned meerschaum. The drama that was going on was 
almost as familiar as the scene, nevertheless habit had not 
made him indifferent to it, and even in his present self- 
absorbed mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of the old 


7im NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 241 

fellow-feeling, as lie looked at the rough men painfully hold- 
ing pen or pencil with their cramped hands, or humbly labor- 
ing through their reading lesson. 

The reading class now seated on the form in front of the 
Bchoolmaster’s desk consisted of the three most backward pu- 
pils. Adam would have known it, only by seeing Bartle Mas- 
sey’s face as he looked over his spectacles which he had shifted 
to the ridge of his nose, not requiring them for present pur- 
poses. The face wore its mildest expression : the grizzled 
bushy eyebrows had taken their more acute angle of compas- 
sionate kindness, and the mouth, habitually compressed with a 
pout of the lower lip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak 
a helpful word or syllable in a moment. This gentle expres- 
sion was the more interesting because the schoolmaster’s nose, 
an irregular aquiline twisted a little on one side, had rather a 
formidable character ; and his brow, moreover, had that pecul- 
iar tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keen 
impatient temperament: the blue veins stood out like cords 
under the transparent yellow skin, and this intimidating brow 
was softened by no tendency to baldness, for the gray bristly 
hair, cut down to about an inch in length, stood round it in as 
close ranks as ever. 

“ Nay, Bill, nay,” Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he 
nodded to Adam, “ begin that again, and then, perhaps, it ’ll 
come to you what d, r, y, spells. It ’s the same lesson you 
read last week, you know.” 

“ Bill ” was a sturdy fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an excel- 
lent stone-sawyer, who could get as good wages as any man in 
the trade of his years ; but he found a reading lesson in words 
of one syllable a harder matter to deal with than the hardest 
stone he had ever had to saw. The letters, he complained, 
were so “uncommon alike, there was no tellin’ ’em one from 
another,” the sawyer’s business not being concerned with mi- 
nute differences such as exist between a letter, with its tail 
turned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill 
had a firm determination that he would learn to read, founded 
chiefly on two reasons : first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, 
could read anything “ right off,” whether it was print or writ 

roL. I 


242 


ADAM BEDE. 


ing, and Tom had sent him a letter from twenty miles off, say- 
ing how he was prospering in the world, and had got an over- 
looker’s place ; secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed with 
him, had learned to read when he was turned twenty ; and 
what could be done by a little fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill con- 
sidered, could be done by himself, seeing that he could pound 
Sam into wet clay if circumstances required it. So here he 
was, pointing his big finger towards three words at once, and 
turning his head on one side that he might keep better hold 
with his eye of the one word which was to be discriminated 
out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Massey 
must possess was something so dim and vast that Bill’s imagi- 
nation recoiled before it : he would hardly have ventured to 
deny that the schoolmaster might have something to do in 
bringing about the regular return of daylight and the changes 
in the weather. 

The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type : 
he was a Methodist brickmaker, who, after spending thirty 
years of his life in perfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had 
lately “ got religion,” and along with it the desire to read the 
Bible. But with him, too, learning was a heavy business, and 
on his way out to-night he had offered as usual a special 
prayer for help, seeing that he had undertaken this hard task 
with a single eye to the- nourishment of his soul — that he 
might have a greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith 
to banish evil memories and the temptations of old habit ; or, 
in brief language, the devil. For the brickmaker had been a 
notorious poacher, and was suspected, though there was no 
good evidence against him, of being the man who had shot a 
neighboring gamekeeper in the leg. However that might be, 
it is certain that shortly after the accident referred to, which 
was coincident with the arrival of an awakening Methodist 
preacher at Treddleston, a great change had been observed in 
the brickmaker ; and though he was still known in the neigh- 
borhood by his old sobriquet of “ Brimstone,” there was nothing 
he held in so much horror as any farther transactions with that 
evil-smelling element. He was a broad-chested fellow, with 
a fervid temperament, which helped him better in imbibing 


THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 243 


religious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere 
human knowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been 
already a little shaken in his resolution by a brother Method- 
ist, who assured him that the letter was a mere obstruction 
to the Spirit, and expressed a fear that Brimstone was too 
eager for the knowledge that puffeth up. 

The third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He 
was a tall but thin and wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, 
with a very pale face, and hands stained a deep blue. He was 
a dyer, who in the course of dipping homespun wool and old 
women’s petticoats, had got fired with the ambition to learn a 
great deal more about the strange secrets of color. He had 
already a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and he 
was bent on discovering some method by which he could re- 
duce the expense of crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at 
Treddleston had given him a notion that he might save him- 
self a great deal of labor and expense if he could learn to 
read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours to the night- 
school, resolving that his “ little chap ” should lose no time 
in coming to Mr. Massey’s day-school as soon as he was old 
enough. 

It was touching to see these three big men, with the marks 
of their hard labor about them, anxiously bending over the 
worn books, and painfully making out, “ The grass is green,” 
“ The sticks are dry,” u The corn is ripe ” — a very hard les- 
son to pass to after columns of single words all alike except 
in the first letter. It was almost as if three rough animals 
were making humble efforts to learn how ttey might become 
human. And i fc touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Massey’s 
nature, for such full-grown children as these were the only 
pupils for whom he had no severe epithets, and no impatient 
tones. He was not gifted with an imperturbable temper, and 
on music-nights it was apparent that patience could never be 
an easy virtue to him ; but this evening, as he * glances over 
his spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning his 
head on. one side with a desperate sense of blankness before 
the letters, d, r, y, his eyes shed their mildest and most 
encouraging light. 


244 


ADAM BEDE, 


After the reading class,, two youths, between sixteen and 
nineteen, came up with imaginary bills of parcels, which they 
had been writing out on their slates, and were now required 
to calculate “ off-hand ” — a test which they stood with such 
imperfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyes had been 
glaring at them ominously through his spectacles for some 
minutes, at length burst out in a bitter, high-pitched tone, 
pausing between every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed 
stick which rested between his legs. 

“ Now, you see, you don’t do this thing a bit better than 
you did a fortnight ago ; and I ’ll tell you what ’s the reason. 
You want to learn accounts ; that ’s well and good. But you 
think all you need do to learn accounts is to come to me and 
do sums for an hour or so, two or three times a-week ; and no 
sooner do you get your caps on and turn out of doors again, 
than you sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. You 
go whistling about, and take no more care what you ’re think- 
ing of than if your heads were gutters for any rubbish to 
swill through that happened to be in the way ; and if you get 
a good notion in ’em, it ’s pretty soon washed out again. You 
think knowledge is to be got cheap — you ’ll come and pay 
Bartle Massey sixpence a-week, and he ’ll make you clever 
at figures without your taking any trouble. But knowledge 
is n’t to be got with paying sixpence, let me tell you : if 
you ’re to know figures, you must turn ’em over in your heads, 
and keep your thoughts fixed on ’em. There ’s nothing you 
can’t turn into a sum, for there ’s nothing but what ’s got 
number in it — even a fool. You may say to yourselves, 
*1 'm one fool, and Jack ’s another ; if my fool’s head weighed 
four pound, and Jack’s three pound three ounces and three 
quarters, how many pennyweights heavier would my head be 
than J ack’s ? ’ A man that had got his heart in learning 
figures would make sums for himself, and work ’em in his 
head : when he sat at his shoemaking, he ’d count his stitches 
by fives, and then put a price on his stitches, say half a far- 
thing, and then see how much money he could get in an hour ; 
and then ask himself how much money he ’d get in a day at 
tiiat rate ; and then how much ten workmen would get work* 


THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 245 


ing three, or twenty, or a hundred years at that rate — and all 
the while his needle would be going just as fast as if he left 
his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and 
the short of it is — I ’ll have nobody in my night-school that 
does n’t strive to learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if 
he was striving to get out of a dark hole into broad daylight. 
I ’ll send no man away because he ’s stupid : if Billy Taft, the 
idiot, wanted to learn anything, I ’d not refuse to teach him. 
But I ’ll not throw away good knowledge on people who think 
they can get it by the sixpenn’orth, and carry it away with 
’em as they would an ounce of snuff. So never come to me 
again, if you can’t show that you ’ve been working with your 
own heads, instead of thinking you can pay for mine to work 
for you. That ’s the last word I ’ve got to say to you.” 

With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap 
than ever with his knobbed stick, and the discomfited lads got 
up to go with a sulky look. The other pupils had happily 
only their writing-books to show, in various stages of pro- 
gress from pot-hooks to round text ; and mere pen-strokes, 
however perverse, were less exasperating to Bartle than false 
arithmetic. He was a little more severe than usual on Jacob 
Storey’s Z’s, of which poor Jacob had written a pageful, all 
with their tops turned the wrong way, with a puzzled sense 
that they were not right “spmehow.” But he observed in 
apology, that it was a letter you never wanted hardly, and he 
thought it had only been put there “ to finish off th’ alphabet, 
like, though ampus-and (&) would ha’ done as well, for what 
he could see.” 

At last the pupils had all taken their hats and said their 
“ Good-nights,” and Adam, knowing his old master’s habits, 
rose and said, te Shall I put the candles out, Mr. Massey ? ” 

u Yes, my boy, yes, ail but this, which I ’ll carry into the 
house ; and just lock the outer door, now you ’re near it,” 
said Bartle, getting his stick in the fitting angle* to help him 
in descending from his stool. He was no sooner on the 
ground than it became obvious why the stick was necessary — 
the left leg was much shorter than the right. But the school- 
master was so active with his lameness, that it was hardly 


246 


ADAM BEDE. 


thought of as a misfortune ; and if you had seen him make 
his way along the schoolroom floor, and up the step into his 
kitchen, you would perhaps have understood why the naughty 
boys sometimes felt that his pace might be indefinitely quick- 
ened, and that he and his stick might overtake them even in 
their swiftest run. 

! The moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the can- 
dle in his hand, a faint whimpering began in the chimney- 
corner, and a brown-and-tan-colored bitch, of that wise-looking 
breed with short legs and long body, known to an unmechan- 
ical generation as turnspits, came creeping along the floor, 
wagging her tail, and hesitating at every other step, as if her 
affections were painfully divided between the hamper in the 
chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not leave 
without a greeting. 

“Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies ?” said the 
schoolmaster, making haste towards the chimney-corner, and 
holding the candle over the low hamper, where two extremely 
blind puppies lifted up their heads towards the light, from a 
nest of flannel and wool. Vixen could not even see her master 
look at them without painful excitement : she got into the 
Hamper and got out again the next moment, and behaved with 
true feminine folly, though looking all the while as wise as a 
dwarf with a large old-fashioned head and body on the most 
abbreviated legs. 

“Why, you ’ve got a family, I see, Mr. Massey?” said 
Adam, smiling, as he came into the kitchen. “ How ’s that ? 
I thought it was against the law here.” 

“ Law ? What ’s the use o’ law when a man’s once such a 
fool as to let a woman into his house ? ” said Bartle, turn- 
ing away from the hamper with some bitterness. He always 
called Vixen a woman, and seemed to have lost all conscious- 
ness that he was using a figure of speech. “ If I ’& known 
Vixen was a woman, I ? d never have held the boys from dro wn- 
ing her ; but when I ’d got her into my hand, I was forced to 
take to her. And now you see what she ’s brought me to — 
the sly, hypocritical wench ” — Bartle spoke these last words 
in a rasping tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, who poked 


THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 247 

down her head and turned up her eyes towards him with a 
keen sense of opprobrium — “ and contrived to be brought to 
bed on a Sunday at church-time. I ’ve wished again and again 
I ’d been a bloody-minded man, that I could have strangled the 
mother and the brats with one cord.” 

“ I ’m glad it was no worse a cause kept you from church,” 
said Adam. “ I was afraid you must be ill for the first time 
i’ your life. And I was particular sorry not to have you at 
church yesterday.” 

“ Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why,” said Bartle, kindly, 
going up to Adam, and raising his hand up to the shoulder 
that was almost on a level with his own head. “ You Ve had 
a rough bit o’ road to get over since I saw you — a rough bit 
o’ road. But I ’m in hopes there are better times coming for 
you. I’ve got some news to tell you. But I must get my 
supper first, for I’m hungry, I’m hungry. Sit down, sit 
down.” 

Bartle went into his little pantry, and brought out an excel- 
lent home-baked loaf ; for it was his one extravagance in these 
dear times to eat bread once a-day instead of oat-cake ; and he 
justified it by observing, that what a schoolmaster wanted was 
brains, and oat-cake ran too much to bone instead of brains. 
Then came a piece of cheese and a quart jug with a crown of 
foam upon it. He placed them all on the round deal table 
which stood against his large arm-chair in the chimney-corner, 
with Vixen’s hamper on one side of it, and a window-shelf 
with a few books piled up in it on the other. The table was 
as clean as if Vixen had been an excellent housewife in a 
checkered apron ; so was the quarry floor ; and the old carved 
oaken press, table, and chairs, which in these days would be 
bought at a high price in aristocratic houses, though, in that 
period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids, Bartle had got them 
for an old song, were as free from dust as things could be at 
the end of a summer’s day. 

“Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We’ll not talk 
about business till we’ve had our supper. No man can be 
wise on an empty stomach. But,” said Bartle, rising from his 
chair again, “ I must give Vixen her supper too, confound her \ 


248 


ADAM BEDE. 


though she ’ll do nothing with it but nourish those unnecessary 
babbies. That ’s the way with these women, they ’ve got no 
head-pieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either to fat 
or to brats.” 

He brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps, which Vixen 
at once fixed her eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper to 
lick up with the utmost despatch. 

"I’ve had my supper, Mr. Massey,” . said Adam, "so I’ll 
look on while you eat yours. I ’ve been at the Hall Farm, and 
they always have their supper betimes, you know : they don’t 
keep your late hours.” 

“ I know little about their hours,” said Bartle, dryly, cutting 
his bread and not shrinking from the crust. " It ’s a house 
I seldom go into, though I ’m fond of the boys, and Martin 
Poyser ’s a good fellow. There ’s too many women in the 
house for me : I hate the sound of women’s voices ; they ’re 
always either a-buzz or a-squeak — always either a-buzz or 
a-squeak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o’ the talk like a fife ; 
and as for the young lasses, I ’d as soon look at water-grubs — 
I know what they ’ll turn to — stinging gnats, stinging gnats. 
Here, take some ale, my boy : it ’s been drawn for you — it ’s 
been drawn for you.” 

“ Nay, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, who took his old friend’d 
whim more seriously than usual to-night, " don’t be so hard on 
the creaturs God has made to be companions for us. A work- 
ing man ’ud be badly off without a wife to see to th’ house and 
the victual, and make things clean and comfortable.” 

"Nonsense! It’s the silliest lie a sensible man like you 
ever believed, to say a woman makes a house comfortable. 
It’s a story got up, because the women are there, and some- 
thing must be found for ’em to do. I tell you there is n’t a 
thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, but what a 
man can do better than a woman, unless it ’s bearing children, 
and they do that in a poor make-shift way ; it had better ha’ 
been left to the men — it had better ha’ been left to the men. 
I tell you, a woman ’ull bake you a pie every week of her life, 
and never come to see that the hotter th’ oven the shorter the 
time. I tell you, a woman ’ull make your porridge every day 


THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 249 


for twenty years, and never think of measuring the proportion 
between the meal and the milk — a little more or less, she ’ll 
think, does n’t signify : the porridge will be awk’ard now and 
then: if it’s wrong, it’s summat in the meal, or it’s summat 
in the milk, or it ’s summat in the water. Look at me ! I 
make my own bread, and there’s no difference between one 
batch and another from year’s end to year’s end ; but if I ’d 
got any other woman besides Vixen in the house, I must pray 
to the Lord every baking to give me patience if the bread 
turned out heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is cleaner 
than any other house on the Common, though the half oi ’em 
swarm with women. Will Baker’s lad comes to help me in a 
morning, and we get as much cleaning done in one hour with- 
out any fuss, as a woman ’ud get done in three, and all the 
while be sending buckets o’ water after your ankles, and let 
the fender and the fire-irons stand in the middle o’ the floor 
half the day, for you to break your shins against ’em. Don’t 
tell me about God having made such creatures to be compan 
ions for us ! I don’t say but he might make Eve to be a com 
panion to Adam in Paradise — there was no cooking to be. 
spoilt there, and no other woman to cackle with and make 
mischief ; though you see what mischief she did as soon as 
she ’d an opportunity. But it ’s an impious, unscriptural opin- 
ion to say a woman ’s a blessing to a man now ; you might as 
well say adders and wasps, and foxes and wild beasts, are a 
blessing, when they ’re only the evils that belong to this state 
o’ probation, which it ’s lawful for a man to keep as clear of 
as he can in this life, hoping to get quit of ’em forever in 
another — hoping to get quit of ’em forever in another.” 

Bartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his 
invective that he had forgotten his supper, and only used the 
knife for the purpose of rapping the table with the haft. But 
towards the close, the raps became so sharp and frequent, and 
his voice so quarrelsome, that Vixen felt it incumbent on her 
to jump out of the hamper and bark vaguely. 

“ (^uiet, Vixen ! ” snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. 

You ’re like the rest o’ the women — always putting in your 
word before you know why ” 


250 


ADAM BEDE. 


Vixen returned to her hamper again in humiliation, and her 
master continued his supper in a silence which Adam did not 
choose to interrupt ; he knew the old man would be in a better 
humor when he had had his supper and lighted his pipe. 
Adam was used to hear him talk in this way, but had never 
learned so much of Bartle’s past life as to know whether his 
view of married comfort was founded on experience. On that 
point Bartle was mute ; and it was even a secret where he had 
lived previous to the twenty years in which, happily for the 
peasants and artisans of this neighborhood, he had been set- 
tled among them as their only schoolmaster. If anything like 
a question was ventured on this subject, Bartle always replied, 
“ Oh, I ’ve seen many places — I ’ve been a deal in the south ’’ 
— and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought of 
asking for a particular town or village in Africa as in “ the 
south.” 

“Now then, my boy,” said Bartle, at last, when he had 
poured out his second mug of ale and lighted his pipe — “ now 
then, we ’ll have a little talk. But tell me first, have you 
heard any particular news to-day ? ” 

“No,” said Adam, “not as I remember.” 

“ Ah, they ’ll keep it close, they ’ll keep it close, I dare say. 
But I found it out by chance ; and it ’s news that may concern 
you, Adam, else I ’m a man that don’t know a superficial square 
foot from a solid.” 

Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking 
earnestly the while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious man 
has never any notion of keeping his pipe alight by gentle 
measured puffs ; he is always letting it go nearly out, and 
then punishing it for that negligence. At last he said — 

“Satchell’s got a paralytic stroke. I found it cut from 
the lad they sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven 
o’clock this morning. He’s a good way beyond sixty, you 
know; it’s much if he gets over it.” 

“Well,” said Adam, “I dare say there ’d be more rejoicing 
than sorrow in the parish at his being laid up. He ’s been a 
selfish, tale-bearing, mischievous fellow; but, after all, there’s 
nobody he ’s done so much harm to as to th’ old Squire. 


THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 251 

Though it ’s the Squire himself as is to blame — making a 
stupid fellow like that a sort o’ man-of-all-work, just to save 
th’ expense of having a proper steward to look after th’ 
estate. And he ’s lost more by ill-management o’ the woods, 
I ’ll be bound, than ’ud pay for two stewards. If he ’s laid 
on the shelf, it ’s to be hoped he ’ll make way for a better 
man, but I don’t see how it ’s like to make any difference to 
me.” 

“ But I see it, but I see it,” said Bartle ; “ and others be- 
sides me. The Captain ’s coming of age now — you know that 
as well as I do — and it ’s to be expected he ’ll have a little 
more voice in things. And I know, and you know too, what 
’ud be the Captain’s wish about the woods, if there was a 
fair opportunity for making a change. He ’s said in plenty of 
people’s hearing that he ’d make you manager of the woods 
to-morrow, if he ’d the power. Why, Carroll, Mr. Ir wine’s 
butler, heard him say so to the parson not many days ago. 
Carroll looked in when we were smoking our pipes o’ Saturday 
night at Casson’s, and he told us about it ; and whenever any- 
body says a good word for you, the parson ’s ready to back it, 
that I ’ll answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can 
tell you, at Casson’s, and one and another had their fling at 
you ; for if donkeys set to work to sing, you ’re pretty sure 
what the tune ’ll be.” 

“Why, did they talk it over before Mr. Burge?” said 
Adam ; “ or was n’t he there o’ Saturday ? ” 

" Oh, he went away before Carroll came ; and Casson — he ’s 
always for setting other folks right, you know — would have 
it Burge was the man to have the management of the woods. 
1 A substantial man,’ says he, ‘ with pretty near sixty years’ 
experience o’ timber : it ’ud be all very well for Adam Bede to 
act under him, but it isn’t to be supposed the Squire ’ud 
appoint a young fellow like Adam, when there ’s his elders 
and betters at hand !’ But I said, ( That’s a pretty notion o’ 
yours, Casson. Why, Burge is the man to buy timber ; would 
you put the woods into his hands, and let him make his own 
bargains ? I think you don’t leave your customers to score 
their own drink, do you ? And as for age, what that ’s worth 


252 


ADAM BEDE. 


depends on the qualit j o’ the liquor. It ’s pretty well known 
who ’s the backbone of Jonathan Burge’s business.’ ” 

“ I thank you for your good word, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. 
“But, for all that, Casson was partly i’ the right for once. 
There ’s not much likelihood that th’ old Squire ’ud ever com 
sent t’ employ me : I offended him about two years ago, and 
he ’s never forgiven me.” 

“ Why, how was that ? You never told me about it,” said 
Bartle. 

“Oh, it was a bit o’ nonsense. I’d made a frame for a 
screen for Miss Lyddy — she ’s allays making something with 
her worsted-work, you know — and she ’d given me ^particular 
orders about this screen, and there was as much talking and 
measuring as if we ’d been planning a house. However; it 
was a nice bit o’ work, and I liked doing it for her. But, you 
know, those little friggling things take a deal o’ time. I only 
worked at it in over-hours — often late at night — and I had 
to go to Treddleston over an’ over again, about little bits o’ 
brass nails and such gear ; and I turned the little knobs and 
the legs, and carved th’ open work, after a pattern, as nice as 
could be. And I was uncommon pleased with it when it was 
done. And when I took it home, Miss Lyddy sent for me to 
bring it into her drawing-room, so as she might give me direc- 
tions about fastening on the work — very fine needlework, 
Jacob and Rachel a-kissing one another among the sheep, like 
a picture — and th’ old Squire was sitting there, for he mostly 
sits with her. Well, she was mighty pleased with the screen, 
and then she wanted to know what pay she was to give me. 
T did n’t speak at random — you know it ’s not my way ; I ’d 
calculated pretty close, though I had n’t made out a bill, and 
I said, One pound thirteen. That was paying for the mater’als 
and paying me, but none too much, for my work. Th’ old 
Squire looked up at this, and peered in his way at the screen, 
and said, * One pound thirteen for a gimcrack like that ! 
Lydia, my dear, if you must spend money on these things, 
why don’t you get them at Rosseter, instead of paying double 
price for clumsy work here ? Such things are not work for 
a carpenter like Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more,’ 


THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 253 


Well, Miss Lyddy, I reckon, believed what he told her, and 
she ’s not over-fond o’ parting with the money herself — she ’ s 
not a bad woman at bottom, but she ’s been brought up under 
his thumb; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turned 
as red as her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, ‘No, thank 
you, madam ; I ’ll make you a present o’ the screen, if you 
please. I ’ve charged the regular price for my work, and I 
know it ’s done well ; and I know, begging his honor’s pardon, 
that you couldn’t get such a screen at Rosseter under two 
guineas. I ’m willing to give you my work — it ’s been done 
in my own time, and nobody ’s got anything to do with it but 
me ; but if I ’m paid, I can’t take a smaller price than I asked, 
because that ’ud be like saying, I ’d asked more than was just. 
With your leave, madam, I ’ll bid you good-morning.’ I made 
my bow and went out before she ’d time to say any more, for 
she stood with the purse in her hand, looking almost foolish. 
I did n’t mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as polite as I 
could ; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it 
out as I ’m trying to overreach him. And in the evening the 
footman brought me the one pound thirteen wrapped in paper. 
But since then I ’ve seen pretty clear as th’ old Squire can’t 
abide me.” 

“ That ’s likely enough, that ’s likely enough,” said Bartle, 
meditatively. “ The only way to bring him round would be 
to show him what was for his own interest, and that the 
Captain may do — that the Captain may do.” 

“Nay, I don’t know,” said Adam; “the Squire’s ’cute 
enough, but it takes something else besides ’cuteness ,to make 
folks see what ’ll be their interest in the long-run. It takes 
some conscience and belief in right and wrong, I see that 
pretty clear. You ’d hardly ever bring round th’ old Squire 
to believe he ’d gain as much in a straightfor’ard way as by 
tricks and turns. And, besides, I ’ve not much mind to work 
under him : I don’t want to quarrel with any gentleman, more 
particular an old gentleman turned eighty, and I know we 
could n’t agree long. If the Captain was master o th’ estate, 
it ’ud be different: he’s got a conscience and a will to do 
right, and I ’d sooner work for him nor for any man living.” 


254 


ADAM BEDE. 


“Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, 
don’t you put your head out at window and tell it to be gone 
about its business, that ’s all. You must learn to deal with 
odd and even in life, as well as in figures. I tell you now, as 
I told you ten years ago, when you pommelled young Mike 
Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad shilling, before you 
knew whether he was in jest or earnest — you’re over-hasty 
and proud, and apt to set your teeth against folks that don’1 
square to your notions. It ’s no harm for me to be a bit fiery 
and stiff-backed : I’m an old schoolmaster, and shall never 
want to get on to a higher perch. But where ’s the use of all 
the time I ’ve spent in teaching you writing and mapping and 
mensuration, if you ’re not to get for’ard in the world, and 
show folks there ’s some advantage in having a head on your 
shoulders, instead of a turnip ? Do you mean to go on turning 
up your nose at every opportunity, because it ’s got a bit of a 
smell about it that nobody finds out but yourself? It’s as 
foolish as that notion o’ yours that a wife is to make a work- 
ing man comfortable. Stuff and nonsense ! — stuff and non- 
sense ! Leave that to fools that never got beyond a sum in 
simple addition. Simple addition enough ! Add one fool to 
another fool, and in six years’ time six fools more — they’re 
all of the same denomination, big and little ’s nothing to do 
with the sum ! ” 

During this rather neated exhortation to coolness and dis- 
cretion the pipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to 
his speech by striking a light furiously, after which he puffed 
with fierce resolution, fixing his eye still on Adam, who was 
trying not to laugh. 

“ There ’s a good deal o’ sense in what you say, Mr. Mas- 
sey,” Adam began, as soon as he felt quite serious, “ as there 
always is. But you ’ll give in that it ’s no business o’ mine to 
be building on chances that may never happen. What I ’ve 
got to do is to work as well as I can with the tools and ma- 
ter’als I ’ve got in my hands. If a good chance comes to me, 
I ’ll think o’ what you ’ve been saying ; but till then, I ’ve got 
nothing to do but to trust to my own hands and my own head 
piece. I ’m turning over a little plan for Seth and me to go 


THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 256 


into the cabinet-making a bit by ourselves, and win a extra 
pound or two in that way. But it ’s getting late now — it ’ll 
be pretty near eleven before I ’m at home, and mother may 
happen to lie awake j she ’s more fidgety nor usual now. So 
I ’ll bid you good-nighh” 

“ Well, well, we ’ll go to the gate with you — it ’s a fine night,” 
said Bartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her legs, 
and without further words the three walked out into the star- 
light, by the side of Bartle’s potato-beds, to the little gate. 

“ Come to the music o’ Friday night, if you can, my boy,” 
said the old man, as he closed the gate after Adam, and leaned 
against it. 

“ Ay, ay,” said Adam, striding along towards the streak of 
pale road. He was the only object moving on the wide common. 
The two gray donkeys, just visible in front of the gorse bushes, 
stood as still as limestone images — as still as the gray-tliatched 
roof of the mud cottage a little farther on. Bartle kept his 
eye on the moving figure till it passed into the darkness, while 
Vixen, in a state of divided affection, had twice run back to 
the house to bestow a parenthetic lick on her puppies. 

“ Ay, ay,” muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared } • 
" there you go, stalking along — stalking along ; but you wouldn’t 
have been what you are if you had n’t had a bit of old lame Bartle 
inside you. The strongest calf must have something to suck 
at. There ’s plenty of these big, lumbering fellows ’ud never 
have known their a b c, if it had n’t been for Bartle Massey. 
Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what is it ? 

I must go in, must I ? Ay, ay, I ’m never to have a will o’ my 
,own any more. And those pups, what do you think I ’m to do 
' with ’em, when they ’re twice as big as you ? — for I ’m pretty 
sure the father was that hulking bull-terrier of Will Baker’s — 
was n’t he now, eh, you sly hussy ? ” (Here Vixen tucked 
her tail between her legs, and ran forward into the house. 
Subjects are sometimes broached which a well-bred female will, 
ignore.) 

« But where ’s the use of talking to a woman with babbies ? 5 
continued Bartle: et she’s got no conscience — no consciences 
it’s all run to milk.” 


BOO K III. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 

The 30th of July was come, and it was one of those half 
dozen warm days which sometimes occur in the middle of a 
rainy English summer. No rain had fallen for the last three 
or four days, and the weather was perfect for that time of the 
year : there was less dust than usual on the dark-green hedge- 
rows, and on the wild camomile that starred the roadside, yet 
the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll on it, 
and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple, 
high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an 
outdoor July merrymaking, yet surely not the best time of year 
to be born in. Nature seems to make a hot pause just then — - 
all the loveliest flowers are gone; the sweet time of early 
growth and vague hopes is past ; and yet the time of harvest 
and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at the possible 
storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment of its 
ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green ; the 
wagon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering 
their sweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches ; 
the pastures are often a little tanned, yet the corn has not got 
its last splendor of red and gold ; the lambs and calves have 
lost all traces of their innocent frisky prettiness, and have 
become stupid young sheep and cows. But it is a time of 
leisure on the farm — that pause between hay and corn har* 
vest, and so the farmers and laborers in Hayslope and Broxton 
thought the Captain did well to come of age just then, when 
they could give their undivided minds to the flavor of the great 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 


257 


busk of ale whicli had been brewed the autumn after “the heir” 
was born, and was to be tapped on his twenty-first birthday. 
The air had been merry with the ringing of church-bells very 
early this morning, and every one had made haste to get through 
the needful work before twelve, when it would be time to think 
of getting ready to go to the Chase. 

The mid-day sun was streaming into Hetty’s bed-chamber, 
and there was no blind to temper the heat with which it fell 
on her head as she looked at herself in the old specked glass. 
Still, that was the only glass she had in which she could see 
her neck and arms, for the small hanging glass she had fetched 
out of the next room — the room that had been Dinah’s — 
would show her nothing below her little chin, and that beauti- 
ful bit of neck where the^roundness of her cheek melted into 
another roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day 
she thought more than usual about her neck and arms ; for at 
the dance this evening she was not to wear any neckerchief, 
and she had been busy yesterday with her spotted pink-and- 
white frock, that she might make the sleeves either long or 
short at will. She was dressed now just as she was to be in 
the evening, with a tucker made of “ real ” lace, which her 
aunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no 
ornaments besides ; she had even taken out her small round 
earrings which she wore every day. But there was something 
more to be done, apparently, before she put on her neckerchief 
and long sleeves, which she was to wear in the daytime, for 
now she unlocked the drawer that held her private treasures. 
It is more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer 
before, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious 
than the old ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty 
would not care to put the large colored glass earrings into her 
ears now ; for see ! she has got a beautiful pair of gold and 
pearls and garnet, lying snugly in a pretty little box. lined with 
white satin. Oh the delight of taking out that .little box and 
looking at the earrings ! Do not reason about it, my philo- 
sophical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must 
have known that it did not signify whether she had on any 
ornaments or not; and that, moreover, to look at earrings 


"OL. I. 


258 


ADAM BEDE. 


which she could not possibly wear out of her bed-room could 
hardly be a satisfaction, the essence of vanity being a reference 
to the impressions produced on others ; you will never under- 
stand women’s natures if you are so excessively rational. Try 
rather to divest yourself of all your rational prejudices, as 
much as if you were studying the psychology of a canary bird, 
and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature 
as she turns her head on one side with an unconscious smile 
at the earrings nestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it is 
for the sake of the person who has given them to her, and her 
thoughts are gone back now to the moment when they were 
put into her hands. No ; else why should she have cared to 
have earrings rather than anything else ? and I know that she 
had longed for earrings from among all the ornaments she 
could imagine. 

“ Little, little ears ! ” Arthur had said, pretending to pinch 
them one evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass with- 
out her hat. “ I wish I had some pretty earrings ! ” she said 
in a moment, almost before she knew what she was saying — 
the wish lay so close to her lips, it would flutter past them 
at the slightest breath. And the next day — it was only last 
week — Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy 
them. That little wish so naively uttered, seemed to him the 
prettiest bit of childishness ; he had never heard anything like 
it before ; and he had wrapped the box up in a great many 
covers, that he might see Hetty unwrapping it with growing 
curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back their new delight 
into his. 

No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled 
at the earrings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not 
to press them to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears, — 
only for one moment, to see how pretty they look, as she peeps 
at them in the glass against the wall, with first one position of 
the head and then another, like a listening bird. It is impossi- 
ble to be wise on the subject of earrings as one looks at her ; 
what should those delicate pearls and crystals be made for, if 
not for such ears ? One cannot even find fault with the tiny 
round hole which they leave when they are taken out ; perhaps 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 259 s 

water-nixies, and such lovely things without .souls, have these 
little round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels 
in. And Hetty must be one of them : it is too painful to think 
that she is a woman, with a woman’s destiny before her — a 
woman spinning in young ignorance a light web of folly and 
vain hopes which may one day close round her and press upon 
her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once her 
fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human 
anguish. 

But she cannot keep in the earrings long, else she may make 
her uncle and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box 
again, and shuts them up. Some day she will be able to wear 
any earrings she likes, and already she lives in an invisible 
world of brilliant costumes, shimmering gauze, soft satin, and 
velvet, such as the lady’s-maid at the Chase has shown her in 
Miss Lydia’s wardrobe : she feels the bracelets on her arms, 
and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But she 
has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear to- 
day, because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown ber- 
ries which she has been used to wear on grand days, with a 
tiny flat scent-bottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock ; 
and she must put on her brown berries — her neck would look 
so unfinished without it. Hetty was not quite as fond of the 
locket as of the earrings, though it was a handsome large locket 
with enamelled flowers at the back and a beautiful gold 
border round the glass, which showed a light-brown slightly 
waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings. 
She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. 
But Hetty had another passion, only a little less strong than 
her love of finery ; and that other passion made her like to 
wear the locket even hidden in her bosom. She would always 
have worn It, if she had dared to encounter her aunt’s questions 
about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped it on 
along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain 
round her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the 
locket to hang a little way below the edge of her frock. And 
now she had nothing to do but to put on her long sleeves, her 
new white gauze neckerchief, and her straw hat trimmed with 


260 


ADAM BEDE. 


white to-day instead of the pink, which had become rather 
faded under the July sun. That hat made the drop of bitter- 
ness in Hetty’s cup to-day, for it was not quite new — every- 
body would see that it was a little tanned against the white 
ribbon — and Mary Burge, she felt sure, would have a new hat 
or bonnet on. She looked for consolation at her fine white 
cotton stockings : they really were very nice indeed, and she 
had given almost all her spare money for them. Hetty’s 
dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph 
in the present : to be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so, 
that he would never care about looking at other people, but 
then those other people didn’t know how he loved her, and 
she was not satisfied to appear shabby and insignificant in 
their eyes even for a short space. 

The whole paity was assembled in the house-place when Hetty 
went down, all of course in their Sunday clothes ; and the bells 
had been ringing so this morning in honor of the Captain’s 
twenty-first birthday, and the work had all been got done so 
early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite easy in their minds 
until their mother had assured them that going to church was 
not part of the day’s festivities. Mr. Poyser had once sug- 
gested that the house should be shut up, and left to take care 
of itself ; " for,” said he, “ there ’s no danger of anybody’s 
breaking in — everybody ’ll be at the Chase, thieves an’ all. 
If we lock th’ house up, all the men can go : it ’s a day they 
wonna see twice i’ their lives.” But Mrs. Poyser answered 
with great decision : “ I never left the house to take care of 
itself since I was a missis, and I never wiXL. There ’s been ill- 
looking tramps enoo’ about the place this last week, to carry 
off every ham an’ every spoon we ’n got ; and they all collogue 
together, them tramps, as it ’s a mercy they hanna come and 
poisoned the dogs and murdered us all in our beds afore we 
knowed, some Priday night when we ’n got the money in th’ 
house to pay the men. And it ’s like enough the tramps know 
where we ’re going as well as we do oursens ; for if Old Harry 
wants any work done, you may be sure he ’ll find the means. 59 

“ Nonsense about murdering us in our beds,” said Mr. Poy- 
ser ; “ I ’ve got a gun i’ our room, hanna I ? and thee ? st got ear? 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 


261 


as ’ud find it out if a mouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, 
if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick can stay at home i’ the fore- 
part o’ the day, and Tim can come back towards five o’clock, 
and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growler loose if 
anybody offers to do mischief, and there ’s Alick’s dog, too, 
ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a 
wink.” 

Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advi&> 
able to bar and bolt to the utmost ; and now, at the last mo- 
ment before starting, Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the 
shutters of the house-place, although the window, lying under 
the immediate observation of Alick and the dogs, might 
have been supposed the least likely to be selected for a burgla- 
rious attempt. 

The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to 
carry the whole family except the men-servants : Mr. Poyser 
and the grandfather sat on the seat in front, and within there 
was room for all the women and children ; the fuller the cart 
the better, because then the jolting would not hurt so much, 
and Nancy’s broad person and thick arms were an excellent 
cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more 
than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting 
as possible on this warm day ; and there was time to exchange 
greetings and remarks with the foot-passengers who were going 
the same way, specking the paths between the green meadows 
and the golden cornfields with bits of movable bright color — 
a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that nodded a little 
too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief with 
ends flaunting across a bran-new white smock-frock. All Bros- 
ton and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry 
there in honor of “ th’ heir ; ” and the old men and women, who 
had never been so far down this side of the hill for the last 
twenty years, were being brought from Broxton and Hayslope 
in one of the farmer’s wagons, at Mr. Irwine’-s suggestion. 
The church-bells had struck up again now — a last tune, before 
the ringers came down the hill to have their share in the festi- 
val ; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard 
approacnmg, so tnat even Old Brown, the sober horse that was 


262 


ADAM BEDE. 


drawing Mr. Poyser’s cart, began to prick up his ears. It was 
the band of the Benefit Club, which had mustered in all its 
glory ; that is to say, in bright-blue scarfs and blue favors, and 
carrying its banner with the motto, “ Let brotherly love con- 
tinue,” encircling a picture of a stone-pit. 

The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every 
one must get down at the lodges, and the vehicles must be 
sent back. 

‘‘'Why, the Chase is like a fair a’ready,” said Mrs. Poyser, 
as she got down from the cart, and saw the groups scattered 
under the great oaks, and the boys running about in the hot 
sunshine to survey the tall poles surmounted by the fluttering 
garments that were to be the prize of the successful climbers. 
“ I should ha’ thought there wasna so many people i’ the two 
parishes. Mercy on us ! how hot it is out o’ the shade ! Come 
here, Totty, else your little face ’ull be burnt to a scratchin’ ! 
They might ha’ cooked the dinners i’ that open space an’ saved 
the fires. I shall go to Mrs. Best’s room an’ sit down.” 

“ Stop a bit, stop a bit,” said Mr. Poyser. “ There ’s th’ 
wagin coming wi’ th’ old folks in ’t ; it ’ll be such a sight as 
wonna come o’er again, to see ’em get down an’ walk along 
all together. You remember some on ’em i’ their prime, eh, 
father ? ” 

I 

“Ay, ay,” said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade 
of the lodge porch, from which he could see the aged party 
descend. “I remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile after 
the Scotch raybels, when they turned back from Stoniton.” 

He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before 
him, as he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, 
descend from the wagon and walk towards him, in his brown 
nightcap, and leaning on his two sticks. 

“Well, Mester Taft,” shouted old Martin, at the utmost 
stretch of his voice, — for though he knew the old man was 
stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety of a greeting, — 
“you’re hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen to-day, for all 
you ’re ninety an’ better.” 

“ Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant,” said Feyther Taft 
in a treble tone, perceiving that he was in company. 


* 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 


263 


The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves 
worn and gray, passed on along the least-winding carriage- 
road towards the house, where a special table was prepared for 
them ; while the Poyser party wisely struck across the grass 
under the shade of the great trees, but not out of view of the 
house-front, with its sloping lawn and flower-beds, or of the 
pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn, standing at 
right angles with two larger marquees on each side of the 
open green space where the games were to be played. The 
house would have been nothing but a plain square mansion of 
Queen Anne’s time, but for the remnant of an old abbey to 
which it was united at one end, in much the same way as one 
may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high and prim at 
the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnant 
stood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, 
but the sun was now on the taller and more advanced front, 
the blinds were all down, and the house seemed asleep in the 
hot mid-day : it made Hetty quite sad to look at it : Arthur 
must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the grand com- 
pany, where he could not possibly know that she was come, 
and she should not see him for a long, long while — not till 
after dinner, when they said he was to come up and make a 
speech. 

But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. Ho grand 
company was come except the Irwines, for whom the carriage 
had been sent early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a 
back room, but walking with the Hector into the broad stone 
cloisters of the old abbey, where the long tables were laid for 
all the cottage tenants and the farm-servants. A very hand- 
some young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and a 
bright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode — his arm no linger 
in a sling. So open-looking and candid, too*, but candid people 
have their secrets, and secrets leave no lines in young faces. 

“ Upon my word,” he said, as they entered the ‘cool cloisters, 
“ I think the cottagers have the best of it : these cloisrers 
make a delightful dining-room on a hot day. - That was capi- 
tal advice of yours, Irwine, about the dinners — to let them 
be as orderly and comfortable as possible, and only for the 


264 


ADAM BEDE. 


tenants : especially as I had only a limited sum after all ; for 
though my grandfather talked of a carte blanche , he could n’t 
make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point.” 

“ Never mind, you ’ll give more pleasure in this quiet way,” 
said Mr. Irwine. “ In this sort of thing people are constantly 
confounding liberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very 
grand to say that so many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, 
and everybody ate who liked to come ; but in the end it gem 
erally happens that no one has had an enjoyable meal. If the 
people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity of ale in 
the middle of the day, they ’ll be able to enjoy the games as 
the day cools. You can’t hinder some of them from getting 
too much towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go 
better together than drunkenness and daylight.” 

“ Well, I hope there won’t be much of it. I ’ve kept the 
Treddleston people away, by having a feast for them in the 
town ; and I ’ve got Casson and Adam Bede, and some other 
good fellows, to look to the giving out of ale in the booths, and 
to take care things don’t go too far. Come, let us go up above 
now, and see the dinner-tables for the large tenants.” 

They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long 
gallery above the cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty worth- 
less old pictures had been banished for the last three genera- 
tions — mouldy portraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, 
General Monk with his eye knocked out, Daniel very much in 
the dark among the lions, and Julius Caesar on horseback, 
with a high nose and laurel crown, holding his Commentaries 
in his hand. 

“ What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the 
old abbey ! ” said Arthur. “ If I ’m ever master here, I shall 
do up the gallery in first-rate style : we ’ve got no room in the 
house a third as large as this. That second table is for the 
farmers’ wives and children : Mrs. Best said it would be more 
comfortable for the mothers and children to be by themselves. 
I was determined to have the children, and make a regular 
family thing of it. I shall be ‘ the old squire ’ to those little 
lads and lasses some day, and they ’ll tell their children whai 
a much finer young fellow I was than my own son. There ’s 


GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 266 

a table for the women and children below as well. But you 
will see them all — you will come up with me after dinner, I 
hope ? ” 

“ Yes, to be sure,” said Mr. Irwine. “ I wouldn’t miss your 
maiden speech to the tenantry.” 

“ And there will be something else you ’ll like to hear,” said 
Arthur. “Let us go into the library and I’ll tell you all 
about it while my grandfather is in the drawing-room with the 
ladies. Something that will surprise you,” he continued, as 
they sat down. “ My grandfather has come round after all.” 

“ What, about Adam ? ” 

“ Yes ; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only 
I was so busy. You know I told you I had quite given up ar- 
guing the matter with him — I thought it was hopeless ; but 
yesterday morning he asked me to come in here to him before 
I went out, and astonished me by saying that he had decided 
on all the new arrangements he should make in consequence 
of old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he in- 
tended to employ Adam in superintending the woods at a sal- 
ary of a guinea a- week, and the use of a pony to be kept here. 
I believe the secret of it is, he saw from the first it would be a 
profitable plan, but he had some particular dislike of Adam to 
get over — and besides, the fact that I propose a thing is gen- 
erally a reason with him for rejecting it. There ’s the most 
curious contradiction in my grandfather : I know he means to 
leave me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough 
to have cut off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him 
all her life, with only five hundred a-year, for the sake of giv- 
ing me all the more ; and yet I sometimes think he positively 
hates me because I ’m his heir. I believe if I were to break 
my neck, he would feel it the greatest misfortune that could 
befall him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my life 
a series of petty annoyances.” 

“ Ah, my boy, it is not only woman’s love fhat is an IpuTos 
epais, as old iEschylus calls it. There ’s plenty of ‘ unloving 
love ’ in the world of a masculine kind. But tell me about 
Adam. Has he accepted the post ? I don’t see that it can 
be much more profitable than his present work, though, to 


266 ADAM BEDE. 

be sure, it will leave him a good deal of time on his own 
hands.” 

“ Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him, and 
he seemed to hesitate at first. His objection was, that he 
thought he should not be able to satisfy my grandfather. But 
I begged him as a personal favor to me not to let any reason 
prevent him from accepting the place, if he really liked the 
employment, and would not be giving up anything that was 
more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it 
of all things ; — it would be a great step forward for him in 
business, and it would enable him to do what he had long 
wished to do — to give up working for Burge. He says he 
shall have plenty of time to superintend a little business of his 
own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps be able 
to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have 
arranged that he shall dine with the large tenants to-day ; and 
I mean to announce the appointment to them, and ask them tc 
drink Adam’s health. It ’s a little drama I ’ve got up in honor 
of my friend Adam. He ’s a fine fellow, and I like the oppor 
tunity of letting people know that I think so.” 

“ A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having 
a pretty part to play,” said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when 
he saw Arthur color, he went on relentingly, “ My part, you 
know, is always that of the old Fogy who sees nothing to ad- 
mire in the young folks. I don’t like to admit that I ’m proud 
of my pupil when he does graceful things. But I must play the 
amiable old gentleman for once, and second your toast in honor 
of Adam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point 
too, and agreed to have a respectable man as steward ? ” 

“ Oh no,” said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of 
impatience, and walking along the room with his hands in his 
pockets. “ He ’s got some project or other about letting the 
Chase Farm, and bargaining for a supply of milk and butter 
for the house. But I ask no questions about it — it makes me 
too angry. I believe he means to do all the business himself, 
and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It ’s amazing 
what energy he has, though.” 

"Well, we’ll go to the ladies now,” said Mr. Irwine, nsbap 


DINNER-TIME. 


267 


Goo. “ I want to tell my mother what a splendid throne you ’ve 
prepared for her under the marquee.” 

a Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too,” said Arthur. 
“ It must be two o’clock, for there is the gong beginning to 
sound for the tenants’ dinners.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

DINNER-TIME. 

When Adam heard that he was to dine up-stairs with the 
large tenants, he felt rather uncomfortable at the idea of being 
exalted in this way above his mother and Seth, who were to 
dine in the cloisters below. But Mr. Mills, the butler, as- 
sured him that Captain Donnithorne had given particular 
orders about it, and would be very angry if Adam was not 
there. 

Adam nodded, and went up to Seth, who was standing a 
few yards off. “ Seth, lad,” he said, “ the Captain has sent to 
say I ’m to dine up-stairs — he wishes it particular, Mr. Mills 
says, so I suppose it ’ud be behaving ill for me not to go. 
But I don’t like sitting up above thee and mother, as if I was 
better than my own flesh and blood. Thee ’t not take it un- 
kind, I hope ? ” 

“Nay, nay, lad,” said Seth, “thy honor’s our honor; and 
if thee get’st respect, thee ’st won it by thy own deserts. The 
further I see thee above me, the better, so long as thee feel ’st 
like a brother to me. It’s because o’ thy being appointed 
over the woods, and it ’s nothing but what ’s right. That ’s a 
place o’ trust, and thee ’t above a common workman now.” 

“ Ay,” said Adam, “ but nobody knows a word about it yet. 
I have n’t given notice to Mr. Burge about leaving him, and I 
don’t like to tell anybody else about it before he knows, for 
he ’ll be a good bit hurt, I doubt. People ’ull be wondering 
to see me there, and they ’ll like enough be guessing the 
reason, and asking questions, for there ’s been so much talk 


268 


ADAM BEDE. 


up and down about my having the place, this last three 
weeks/' 

“Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without 
being told the reason. That ’s the truth. And mother ’ull be 
fine and joyful about it. Let ’s go and tell her.” 

Adam was not the only guest invited to come up-stairs on 
other grounds than the amount he contributed to the rent-roll 
There were other people in the two parishes who derived 
dignity from their functions rather than from their pocket, 
and of these Bartle Massey was one. His lame walk was 
rather slower than usual on this warm day, so Adam linger^ 
behind when the bell rang for dinner, that he might walk up 
with his old friend ; for he was a little too shy to join the 
Poyser party on this public occasion. Opportunities of get- 
ting to Hetty’s side would be sure to turn up in the course of 
the day, and Adam contented himself with that, for he dis 
liked any risk of being “joked” about Hetty, the big, out- 
spoken, fearless man was very shy and diffident as to his 
love-making. 

“Well, Mester Massey,” said Adam, as Bartle came up, 
“ I ’m going to dine up-stairs with you to-day : the Captain ’s 
sent me orders.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. 
“ Then there ’s something in the wind — there ’s something 
in the wind. Have you heard anything about what the old 
Squire means to do ? ” 

“ Why, yes,” said Adam ; “ I ’ll tell you what I know, be- 
cause I believe you can keep a still tongue in your head if you 
like, and I hope you ’ll not let drop a word till it ’s common 
talk, for I ’ve particular reasons against its being known.” 

“ Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I ’ve got no wife to 
worm it out of me and then run out and cackle it in everybody’s 
hearing. If you trust a man, let him be a bachelor — let him 
be a bachelor.” 

“Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday, that I’m to 
take the management o’ the woods. The Captain sent for me 
t’ offer it me, when I was seeing to the poles .and things here, 
and I ’ve agreed to ’t. But if anybody asks any Questions 


DINNER-TIME. 


269 


up-stairs, just you take no notice, and turn the talk to some- 
thing else, and I ’ll be obliged to you. Now, let us go on, for 
we ’re pretty nigh the last, I think.” 

“I know what to do, never fear,” said Bartle, moving on. 
“ The news will be good sauce to my dinner. Ay, ay, my boy, 
you ’ll get on. I ’ll back you for an eye at measuring, and a 
head-piece for figures, against any man in this county ; and 
you ’ve had good teaching — you ’ve had good teaching.” 

When they got up-stairs, the question which Arthur had 
left unsettled, as to who was to be president, and who vice, 
was still under discussion, so that Adam’s entrance passed 
without remark. 

“ It stands to sense,” Mr. Casson was saying, “ as old Mr. 
Poyser, as is th’ oldest man i’ the room, should sit at top o’ 
the table. I was n’t butler fifteen year without learning the 
rights and the wrongs about dinner.” 

“ Nay, nay,” said old Martin, “ I ’n gi’en up to my son ; 
I ’m no tenant now : let my son take my place. Th’ ould foulks 
ha’ had their turn : they mun make way for the young uns.” 

“ I should ha’ thought the biggest tenant had the best 
right, more nor th’ oldest,” said Luke Britton, who was not 
fond of the critical Mr. Poyser ; “ there ’s Mester Holdsworth 
has more land nor anybody else on th’ estate.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Poyser, “suppose we say the man wi’ the 
foulest land shall sit at top; then whoever gets th’ honor, 
there ’ll be no envying on him.” 

“ Eh, here ’s Mester Massey,” said Mr. Craig, who, being a 
neutral in the dispute, had no interest but in conciliation ; 
“ the schoolmaster ought to be able to tell you what ’s right. 
Who ’s to sit at top o’ the table, Mr. Massey ? ” 

“ Why, the broadest man,” said Bartle; “and then he won’t 
take up other folks’ room ; and the next broadest must sit at 
bottom.” 

This happy mode of settling the dispute produced much 
laughter — a smaller joke would have sufficed for that. Mr. 
Casson, however, did not feel it compatible with his dignity 
and superior knowledge to join in the laugh, until it turned 
out that he was fixed on as the second broadest man. Martin 


270 


-DAM BEDE. 


Poyser the younger, as the broadest, was to be president, and 
Mr. Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice. 

Owing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the 
bottom of the table, fell under the immediate observation of 
Mr. Casson, who, too much occupied with the question of pre- 
cedence, had not hitherto noticed his entrance. Mr. Casson, 
we have seen, considered Adam “ rather lifted up and peppery- 
like : ” he thought the gentry made more fuss about this young 
carpenter than was necessary ; they made no fuss about Mr. 
Casson, although he had been an excellent butler for &£teen 
years. 

“Well, Mr. Bede, you’re one o’ them as mounts hup’ards 
apace,” he said, when Adam sat down. “ You ’ve niver dined 
here before, as I remember.” 

“No, Mr. Casson,” said Adam, in his strong voice, that could 
be heard along the table ; “ I ’ve never dined here before, but 
I come by Captain Donnithorne’s wish, and I hope it ’s not 
disagreeable to anybody here.” 

“Nay, nay,” said several voices at once, “ we ’re glad ye ’re 
come. Who ’s got anything to say again’ it ? ” 

“ And ye ’ll sing us ‘ Over the hills and far away/ after 
dinner, wonna ye ? ” said Mr. Chowne. “ That ’s a song I ’m 
uncommon fond on.” 

“ Peeh ! ” said Mr. Craig ; “ it ’s not to be named by side o’ the 
Scotch tunes. I ’ve never cared about singing myself ; I ’ve 
had something better to do. A man that ’s got the names and 
the natur o’ plants in ’s head isna likely to keep a hollow place 
t’ hold tunes in. But a second cousin o’ mine, a drovier, was a 
rare hand at remembering the Scotch tunes. He ’d got noth 
ing else to think on.” 

“ The Scotch tunes ! ” said Bartle Massey, contemptuously ; 
“ I ’ve heard enough o’ the Scotch tunes to last me while I 
live. They ’re fit for nothing but to frighten the birds with— 
that ’s to say, the English birds, for the Scotch birds may sing 
Scotch for what I know. Give the lads a bagpipes instead of 
a rattle, and I’ll answer for it the corn ’ll be safe.” 

“Yes, there’s folks as find a pleasure in undervally ing what 
they know but little about,” said Mr. Craig. 


DINNER-TIME. 


271 


“Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging 
woman,” Bartle went on, without deigning to notice Mr. Craig’s 
remark. “ They go on with the same thing over and over 
again, and never come to a reasonable end. Anybody ’ud 
think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a question of 
somebody as deaf as old Taft, and had never got an answer 
yet.” 

Adam minded the less about sitting by Mr. Casson, because 
this position enabled him to see Hetty, who was not far off 
him at the next table. Hetty, however, had not even noticed 
his presence yet, for she was giving angry attention to Totty, 
who insisted on drawing up her feet on to the bench in antique 
fashion, and thereby threatened to make dusty marks on 
Hetty’s pink-and-white frock. No sooner were the little fat 
legs pushed down than up they came again, for Totty’s eyes 
were too busy in staring at the large dishes to see where the 
plum-pudding was, for her to retain any consciousness of her 
legs. Hetty got quite out of patience, and at last, with a 
frown and pout, and gathering tears, she said — 

“Oh dear, aunt, I wish you’d speak to Totty; she keeps 
putting her legs up so, and messing my frock.” 

“ What ’s the matter wi’ the child ? She can niver pleas© 
you,” said the mother. “ Let her come by the side o’ me, 
then : I can put up wi’ her.” 

Adam was looking at Hettjr, and saw the frown, and pout, 
and the dark eyes seeming to grow larger with pettish half- 
gathered tears. Quiet Mary Burge, who sat near enough to 
see that Hetty was cross, and that Adam’s eyes were fixed on 
her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam must be reflecting 
on the small value of beauty in a woman whose temper was 
bad. Mary was a good girl, not given to indulge in evil feel- 
ings, but she said to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad tem- 
per, it was better Adam should know it. And it was quite 
true, that if Hetty had been plain she would havq looked very 
ugly and unamiable at that moment, and no one’s moral judg- 
ment upon her would have been in the least beguiled. But 
really there was something quite charming in her pettishness : 
it looked so much more like innocent distress than ill-humor: 


272 


ADAM BEDE. 


and the severe Adam felt no movement of disapprobation ; he 
only felt a sort of amused pity, as if he had seen a kitten 
setting up its back, or a little bird with its feathers ruffled. 
He could not gather what was vexing her, but it was impossi- 
ble to him to feel otherwise than that she was the prettiest 
thing in the world, and that if he could have his way, nothing 
should ever vex her any more. And presently, when Totty 
was gone, she caught his eye, and her face broke into one of 
its brightest smiles, as she nodded to him. I4*was a bit of 
flirtation : she knew Mary Burge was looking at them. But 
the smile was like wine to Adam. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE HEALTH-DRINKING. 

When the dinner was over, and the first draughts from the 
great cask of birthday ale were brought up, room was made 
for the broad Mr. Poyser at the side of the table, and two 
chairs were placed at the head. It had been settled very 
definitely what Mr. Poyser was to do when the young Squire 
should appear, and for the last five minutes he had been in a 
state of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture 
opposite, and his hands busy with the loose cash and other 
articles in his breeches-pockets. 

When the young Squire entered, with Mr. Irwine by his 
side, every one stood up, and this moment of homage was very 
agreeable to Arthur. He liked to feel his own importance, 
and besides that, he cared a great deal for the goodwill of 
these people : he was fond of thinking that they had a hearty, 
special regard for him. The pleasure he felt was in his face 
as he said — 

“My grandfather and I hope all our friends here have en- 
joyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale good. Mr. Irwine 
and I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall afi 
like anything the better that the Rector shares with us.” 


THE HEALTH-DRINKING. 


278 


All eyes were now turned on Mr. Poyser, who, with his 
hands still busy in his pockets, began with the deliberateness 
of a slow-striking clock. u Captain, my neighbors have put it 
upo’ me to speak for ’em to-day, for where folks think pretty 
much alike, one spokesman ’s as good as a score. And though 
we ’ve mayhappen got contrairy ways o’ thinking about a many 
things — one man lays down his land one way, an’ another 
another — an’ I ’ll not take it upon me to speak to no man’s 
farming, but my own — this I ’ll say, as we ’re all o’ one mind 
about our young Squire. We ’ve pretty nigh all on us known 
you when you war a little un, an’ we ’ve niver known anything 
on you but what was good an’ houorable. You speak fair an’ 
y’ act fair, an’ we ’re joyful when we look forrard to your being 
our landlord, for we b’lieve you mean to do right by everybody, 
an’ ’ull make no man’s bread bitter to him if you can help it. 
That ’s what I mean, an’ that ’s what we all mean ; and when 
a man ’s said what he means, he ’d better stop, for th’ ale ’ull 
be none the better for stannin’. An’ I ’ll not say how we like 
th’ ale yet, for we couldna well taste it till we ’d drunk your 
health in it ; but the dinner was good, an’ if there ’s anybody 
hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fault of his own inside. An’ 
as for the Rector’s company, it ’s well known as that ’s wel- 
come t’ all the parish wherever he may be ; an’ I hope, an’ 
we all hope, as he ’ll live to see us old folks, an’ our children 
grown to men an’ women, an’ your honor a family man. I ’ve 
no more to say as concerns, the present time, an’ so we ’ll drink 
our young Squire’s health — three times three.” 

Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clatter- 
ing, and a shouting, with plentiful da capo , pleasanter than a 
strain of sublimest music in the ears that receive such a tribute 
for the first time. Arthur had felt a twinge of conscienoe 
during Mr. Poyser’s speech, but it was too feeble to nullify the 
pleasure he felt in being praised. Did he not deserve what 
was said of him on the whole ? If there was something in his 
conduct that Poyser would n’t have liked if he had known it, 
why. no man’s conduct will bear too close an inspection ; and 
Poyser was not likely to know it ; and, after all, what had he 
done ? Gone a little too far, perhaps, in flirtation, but another 


VOL. I. 


274 


ADAM BEDE. 


man in his place would have acted much worse ; and no harm 
would come — no harm should come, for the next time he was 
alone with Hetty, he would explain to her that she must not 
think seriously of him or of what had passed. It was neces- 
sary to Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied with himself : un- 
comfortable thoughts must be got rid of by good intentions for 
the future, which can be formed so raj^dly, that he had time 
to be uncomfortable and to become easy again before Mr. Poy- 
ser’s slow speech was finished, and when it was time for him 
to speak he was quite light-hearted. 

“I thank you all, my good friends and neighbors,” Arthur 
said, “ for the good opinion of me, and the kind feelings towards 
me which Mr. Poyser has been expressing on your behalf and 
on his own, and it will always be my heartiest wish to deserve 
them. In the course of things we may expect that, if I live, 
I shall one day or other be your landlord ; indeed it is on the 
ground of that expectation that my grandfather has wished 
me to celebrate this day and to come among you now ; and I 
look forward to this position, not merely as one of power and 
pleasure for myself, but as a means of benefiting my neighbors. 
It hardly becomes so young a man as I am, to talk much about 
farming to you, who are most of you so much older, and are 
men of experience ; still, I have interested myself a good deal 
in such matters, and learned as much about them as my oppor- 
tunities have allowed ; and when the course of events shall 
place the estate in my hands, it will.be my first desire to afford 
my tenants all the encouragement a landlord can give them, in 
improving their land, and trying to bring about a better prac- 
tice of husbandry. It will be my wish to be looked on by all 
my deserving tenants as their best friend, and nothing would 
make me so happy as to be able to respect every man on the 
estate, and to be respected by him in return. It is not my 
place at present to enter into particulars ; I only meet your 
good hopes concerning me by telling you that my own hopes 
correspond to them — that what you expect from me I desire 
to fulfil ; and I am quite of Mr. Poyser’s opinion, that when 
a man has said what he means, he had better stop. But the 
pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you would 


THE HEALTH-DKINKING. 


275 


not be perfect if we did not drink the health of my grand- 
father, who has filled the place of both parents to me. I will 
say no more, until you have joined me in drinking his health 
on a day when he has wished me to appear among you as the 
future representative of his name and family.” 

Perhaps there was no one present except Mr. Irwine who 
thoroughly understood and approved Arthur’s graceful mode 
of proposing his grandfather’s health. The farmers thought 
the young Squire knew well enough- that they hated the old 
Squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, “ He ’d better not ha’ stirred a 
kettle o’ sour broth.” The bucolic mind does not readily 
apprehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast 
could not be rejected, and when it had been drunk, Arthur 
said — 

“ I thank you, both for my grandfather and myself ; and 
now there is one more thing I wish to tell you, that you may 
share my pleasure about it, as I hope and believe you will. I 
think there can be no man here who has not a respect, and 
some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for my friend 
Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbor- 
hood that there is no man whose word can be more depended 
on than his ; that whatever he undertakes to do, he does well, 
and is as careful for the interests of those who employ him as 
for his own. I ’m proud to say that I was very fond of Adam 
when I was a little boy, and I have never lost my old feeling 
for him — I think that shows that I know a good fellow when 
I find him. It has long been my wish that he should have the 
management of the woods on the estate, which happen to be 
very valuable ; not only because I think so highly of his char- 
acter, but because he has the knowledge and the skill which 
fit him for the place. And I am happy to tell you that it is 
my grandfather’s wish too, and it is now settled that Adam 
shall manage the woods — a change which I am sure will be 
very much for the advantage of the estate ; and I hope you 
will by-and-by join me in drinking his health, and in wishing 
him all the prosperity in life that he deserves. But there is a 
still older friend of mine than Adam Bede present, and I need 
not tell you that it is Mr. Irwine. I ’m sure you will agree 


ADAM BEDE. 


276 

with me that we must drink no others person's health until we 
have drunk his. I know you have all reason to love him, hut 
no one of his parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, 
charge your glasses, and let us drink to our excellent Rector 
— three times three ! ” 

This toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was want- 
ing to the last, and it certainly was the most picturesque mo- 
ment in the scene when Mr. Irwinei*got up to speak, and all 
the faces in the room were turned towards him. The superior 
refinement of his face was much more striking than that of 
Arthur’s when seen in comparison with the people round them. 
Arthur’s was a much commoner British face, and the splendor 
of his new-fashioned clothes was more akin to the young 
farmer’s taste in costume than Mr. Irwine’s powder, and the 
well-brushed hut well-worn black, which seemed to be his 
chosen suit for great occasions ; for he had the mysterious 
secret of never wearing a new-looking coat. 

“ This is not the first time, by a great many,” he said, “that 
I have had to thank my parishioners for giving me tokens of 
their woodwill, but neighborly kindness is among those things 
that are the more precious the older they get. Indeed, our 
pleasant meeting to-day is a proof that when what is good 
comes of age and is likely to live, there is reason for rejoicing ; 
and the relations between us as clergyman and parishioners came 
of age two years ago, for it is three-and-twenty years since I 
first came among yon, and I see some tall fine-looking young 
men here, as well as some blooming young women, that were 
far from looking as pleasantly at me when I christened them, 
as I am happy to see them looking now. But I ’m sure you 
will not wonder when I say, that among all those young men, 
the one in whom I have the strongest interest is my friend 
Mr. Arthur Donnithorne, for whom you have just expressed 
your regard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor for several 
years, and have naturally had opportunities of knowing him 
intimately which cannot have occurred to any one else who is 
present ; and I have some pride as well as pleasure in assur- 
ing you that I share your high hopes concerning him, and 
your confidence in his possession of those qualities which will 


THE HEALTH-DRINKING. 277 

ma.ke him an excellent landlord when the time shall come foi 
him to take that important position among you. We feel alike 
on most matters on which a man who is getting towards fifty 
can feel in common with a young man of one-and-twenty, and 
he has just been expressing a feeling which I share very heart- 
ily, and I would not willingly omit the opportunity of saying 
so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam Bede. 
People in a high station are of course more thought of and 
talked about, and have their virtues more praised, than those 
whose lives are passed in humble every-day work ; but every 
sensible man knows how necessary that humble every-day work 
is, and how important it is to us that it should be done well. 
And I agree with my friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne in feel- 
ing that when a man whose duty lies in that sort of work, 
shows a character which would make him an example in any 
station, his merit should be acknowledged. He is one of those 
to whom honor is due, and his friends should delight to honor 
him. I know Adam Bede well — I know what he is as a 
workman, and what he has been as a son and brother — and I 
am saying the simplest truth when I say that I respect him 
as much as I respect any man living. But I am not speaking 
to you about a stranger ; some of you are his intimate friends, 
and I believe there is not one here who does not know enough 
of him to join heartily in drinking his health.” 

As Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up, and, filling his 
glass, said, “ A bumper to Adam Bede, and may he live to have 
sons as faithful and clever as himself ! ” 

No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with 
this toast as Mr. Poyser : “ tough work ” as his first speech 
had been, he would have started up to make another if he had 
not knowm the extreme irregularity of such a course. As it 
was, he found an outlet for his feeling in drinking his ale un- 
usually fast, and setting down his glass with a swing of his 
arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few 
others felt less comfortable on the occasion, they tried their 
best to look contented, and so the toast was drunk with a 
goodwill apparently unanimous. 

Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank 


278 


ADAM BEDE. 


his friends. He was a good deal moved by this public tribute 
— ^ery naturally, for he was in the presence of all his little 
world, and it was uniting to do him honor. But he felt no 
shyness about speaking, not being troubled with small vanity 
or lack of words ; he looked neither awkward nor embarrassed, 
but stood in his usual firm upright attitude, with his head 
thrown a little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that 
rough dignity which is peculiar to intelligent, honest, well- 
built workmen, who are never wondering what is their business 
in the world. 

“I’m quite taken by surprise,” he said. r I didn’t expect 
anything o’ this sort, for it ’s a good deal more than my wages. 
But I ’ve the more reason to be grateful to you, Captain, and 
to you, Mr. Irwine, and to all my friends here, who ’ve drunk 
my health and wished me well. It ’ud be nonsense for me to 
be saying, I don’t at all deserve th’ opinion you have of me ; 
that ’ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you ’ve known me 
all these years, and yet haven’t sense enough to find out a 
great deal o’ the truth about me. You think, if I undertake 
to do a bit o’ work, I ’ll do it well, be my pay big or little — 
and that ’s true. I ’d be ashamed to stand before you here if 
it wasna true. But it seems to me; that ’s a man’s plain duty, 
and nothing to be conceited about, and it ’s pretty clear to me 
as I ’ve never done more than my duty ; for let us do what we 
will, it’s only making use o’ the sperrit and the powers that 
ha’ been given to us. And so this kindness o’ yours, I ’m sure, 
is no debt you owe me, but a free gift, and as such I accept it 
and am thankful. And as to this new employment I ’ve taken 
in hand, I ’ll only say that I took it at Captain Donnithorne’s 
desire, and that I ’ll try to fulfil his expectations. I ’d wish 
for no better lot than to work under him, and to know that 
while I was getting my own bread I was taking care of his 
int’rests. For I believe he ’s one o’ those gentlemen as wishes 
to do the right thing, and to leave the world a bit better than 
he found it, which it ’s my belief every man may do, whether 
he ’s gentle or simple, whether he sets a good bit o’ work going 
and finds the money, or whether he does the work with his 
own hands. There’s no occasion for me to say any more about 


THE HEALTH-DRINKING. 279 

what I feel towards him : I hope to show it through the rest 
©’ my life in my actions.” 

There were various opinions about Adam’s speech : some of 
the women whispered that he did n’t show himself thankful 
enough, and seemed to speak as proud as could be ; but most 
of the men were of opinion that nobody could speak more 
straightfor’ard, and that Adam was as fine a chap as need to 
be. While such observations were being buzzed about, mingled 
with wonderings as to what the old Squire meant to do for a 
bailiff, and whether he was going to have a steward, the two 
gentlemen had risen, and were walking round to the table 
where the wives and children sat. There was none of the 
strong ale here, of course, but wine and dessert — sparkling 
gooseberry for the young ones, and some good sherry for the 
mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, and Totty 
was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down 
into a wine-glass in search of the nuts floating there. 

“ How. do you do, Mrs. Poyser?” said Arthur. “Weren’t 
you pleased to hear your husband make such a good speech 
to-day ? ” 

“ Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied — you ’re forced 
partly to guess what they mean, as you do wi’ the dumb 
creaturs.” 

“ What ! you think you could have made it better for him ?’* 
said Mr. Irwine, laughing. 

“Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find 
words to say it in, thank God. Not as I ’m a-finding faut wi’ 
my husband, for if he ’s a man o’ few words, what he says 
he ’ll stand to.” 

“ I ’m sure I never saw a prettier party than this,” Arthur 
said, looking round at the apple-cheeked children. “ My aunt 
and the Miss Irwines will come up and see you presently. 
They were afraid of the noise of the toasts, but it would be 
a shame for them not to see you at table.” 

He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the 
children, while Mr. Irwine satisfied himself with standing 
still, and nodding at a distance, that no one’s attention might 
be disturbed from the young Squire, the hero of the day. 


280 


ADAM BEDE. 


Arthur did. not venture to stop near Hetty, but merely bowed 
to her as he passed along the opposite side. The foolish child 
felt her heart swelling with discontent; for what woman was 
ever satisfied with apparent neglect, even when she knows it 
to be the mask of love ? Hetty thought this was going to be 
the most miserable day she had had for a long while ; a mo- 
ment of chill daylight and reality came across her dream : 
Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a few hours before, 
was separated from her, as the hero of a great procession is 
separated from a small outsider in the crowd. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE GAMES. 

The great dance was not to begin until eight o’clock ; but 
for any lads and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass 
before then, there was music always at hand; for was not the 
band of the Benefit Club capable of playing excellent jigs, 
reels, and hornpipes ? And, besides this, there was a grand 
band hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderful wind- 
instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delight- 
ful show to the small boys and girls ; to say nothing of 
Joshua Rann’s fiddle, which, by an act of generous fore- 
thought, he had provided himself with, in case any one should 
be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to a solo on that 
instrument. 

Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space 
in front of the house, the games began. There were of course 
well-soaped poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races 
to be run by the old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy 
weights to be lifted by the strong men, and a long list of chal- 
lenges to such ambitious attempts as that of walking as many 
yards as possible on one leg — feats in which it was generally 
remarked that Wiry Ben, being “ the lissom’st, springest 
fellow i’ the country , ” was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown. 


THE GAMES. 


281 


all, there was to be a donkey-race — that sublimest of all 
races, conducted on the grand socialistic idea of everybody 
encouraging everybody else’s donkey, and the sorriest donkey 
winning. 

And soon after four o’clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in 
her damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by 
Arthur, followed by the whole family party, to her raised 
seat under the striped marquee, where she was to give out the 
prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested 
to resign that queenly office to the royal old lady, and Arthur 
was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his god- 
.mother’s taste for stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the deli- 
cately clean, finely scented, withered old man, led out Miss 
Irwine, with his air of punctilious, acid politeness ; Mr. 
Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, looking neutral and stiff in an 
elegant peach-blossom silk ; and Mr. Irwine came last with 
his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besides 
Mr. Gawaine, was invited to-day ; there was to be a grand 
dinner for the neighboring gentry on the morrow, but to-day 
all the forces were required for the entertainment of the 
tenants. 

There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing 
the lawn from the park, but a temporary bridge had been 
made for the passage of the victors, and the groups of people 
standing, or seated here and there on benches, stretched on 
each side of the open space from the white marquees up to 
the sunk fence. 

“ Upon my word it ’s a pretty sight,” said the old lady, in 
her deep voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the 
bright scene with its dark-green background ; “ and it ’s the 
last fete-day I ’m likely to see, unless you make haste and get 
married, Arthur. But take care you get a charming bride, 
else I would rather die without seeing her.” 

“ You ’re so terribly fastidious, godmother,” said Arthur, 
“ I ’m afraid I should never satisfy you with my choice.” 

“Well, I won’t forgive you if she ’s not handsome. I can’t 
be put off with amiability, which is always the excuse people 
are making for the existence of plain people* And she must 


282 


ADAM BEDE. 


not be silly ; that will never do, because you ’ll want managing, 
and a silly woman can’t manage you. Who is that tall young 
man, Dauphin, with the mild face ? There, standing without 
his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the side 
of him — his mother, of course. I like to see that.” 

“WTiat, don’t you know him, mother?” said Mr. Irwine. 
“ That is Seth Bede, Adam’s brother — a Methodist, but a 
very good fellow. Poor Seth has looked rather down-hearted 
of late ; I thought it was because of his father’s dying in that 
sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to marry that 
sweet little Methodist preacher who was here about a month 
ago, and I suppose she refused him.” 

“ Ah, I remember hearing about her : but there are no end 
of people here that I don’t know, for they ’re grown up and 
altered so since I used to go about.” 

“ What excellent sight you have ! ” said old Mr. Donni- 
thorne, who was holding a double glass up to his eyes, “ to 
see the expression of that young man’s face so far off. His 
face is nothing but a pale blurred spot to me. But I fancy I 
have the advantage of you when we come to look close. I can 
read small print without spectacles.” 

“Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, 
and those near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want 
very strong spectacles to read with, but then I think my eyes 
get better and better for things at a distance. I suppose if I 
could live another fifty years, I should be blind to everything 
that was n’t out of other people’s sight, like a man who stands 
iu a well, and sees nothing but the stars.” 

“ See,” said Arthur, “ the old women are ready to set out on 
their race now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine ? ” 

“ The long-iegged one, unless they ’re going to have several 
heats, and then the little wiry one may win.” 

“ There are the Poysers, mother, not far off on the right 
hand,” said Miss Irwine. “Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. 
Do take notice of her.” 

“ To be sure I will,” said the old lady, giving a gracious 
bow to Mrs. Poyser. “ A woman who sends me such excellent 
cream-cheese is not to be neglected. Bless me! what a fat 


THE GAMES. 283 

child that is she is holding on her knee! But who is that 
pretty girl with dark eyes?” 

“That is Hetty Sorrel,” said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, “Mar- 
tin Poyser’s niece — a very likely young person, and well- 
looking too. My maid has taught her fine needlework, and 

she has mended some lace of mine very respectably indeed 

very respectably.” 

“ Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, 
mother ; you must have seen her,” said Miss Irwine. 

“No, I ’ve never seen her, child ; at least not as she is now,” 
said Mrs. Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. “ Well-looking, 
indeed ! She ’s a perfect beauty ! I ’ve never seen anything 
so pretty since my young days. What a pity such beauty as 
that should be thrown away among the farmers, when it ’s 
wanted so terribly among the good families without fortune ! 
I dare say, now, she T1 marry a man who would have thought 
her just as pretty if she had had round eyes and red hair.” 

Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. 
Irwine was speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to 
be occupied with something on the opposite side. But he saw 
her plainly enough without looking; saw her in heightened 
beauty, because he heard her beauty praised — for other men’s 
opinion, you know, was like a native climate to Arthur’s feel- 
ings : it was the air on which they thrived the best, and grew 
strong. Yes! she was enough to turn any man’s head: any 
man in his place would have done and felt the same. And to 
give her up after all, as he was determined to do, would be an 
act that he should always look back upon with pride. 

“No, mother,” said Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; 
“ I can’t agree with you there. The common people are not 
quite so stupid as you imagine. The commonest man, who 
has his ounce of sense and feeling, is conscious of the differ- 
ence between a lovely, delicate woman, and a coarse one. 
Even a dog feels a difference in their presence. The man 
may be no better able than the dog to explain the influence 
the more refined beauty has on him, but he feels it.” 

“ Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you 
know about it ? ” 


284 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are 
wiser than married men, because they have time for more 
general contemplation. Your fine critic of women must never 
shackle his judgment by calling one woman his own. But, 
as an example of what I was saying, that pretty Methodist 
preacher I mentioned just now, told me that she had preached 
to the roughest miners, and had never been treated with any 
thing but the utmost respect and kindness by them. The 
reason is — though she does n’t know it — that there ’s so 
much tenderness, refinement, and purity about her. Such a 
woman as that brings with her ‘airs from heaven’ that the 
coarsest fellow is not insensible to.” 

“ Here ’s a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming 
to receive a prize, I suppose,” said Mr. Gawaine. “ She must 
be one" of the racers in the sacks, who had set off before we 
came.” 

The “ bit of womanhood ” was our old acquaintance Bessy 
Cranage, otherwise Chad’s Bess, whose large red cheeks and 
blowsy person had undergone an exaggeration of color, which, 
if she had happened to be a heavenly body, would have made 
her sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken to her ear- 
rings again since Dinah’s departure, and was otherwise decked 
out in such small finery as she could muster. Any one who 
could have looked into poor Bessy’s heart would have seen a 
striking resemblance between her little hopes and anxieties 
and Hetty’s. The advantage, perhaps, would have been on 
Bessy’s side in the matter of feeling. But then, you see, 
they were so very different outside ! You would have been 
inclined to box Bessy’s ears, and you would have longed to 
kiss Hetty. 

Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, part;,/ 
from mere hoidenish gayety, partly because of the prize. 
Some one had said there were to be cloaks and other nice 
clothes for prizes, and she approached the marquee, fanning 
herself with her handkerchief, but with exultation sparkling 
in her round eyes. 

“ Here is the prize for the first sack-race,” said Miss Lydia, 
taking a large parcel from the table where the prisea were 


THE GAMES. 285 

laid, and giving it to Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up ; “ an 
excellent grogram gown and a piece of flannel.” 

“ You did n’t think the winner was to be so young, I sup- 
pose, aunt ? ” said Arthur. “ Could n’t you find something else 
for this girl, and save that grim-looking gown for one of the 
older women ? ” 

“ I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial,’ 5 
said Miss Lydia, adjusting her own lace ; “ I should not think 
of encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class. 
I have a scarlet cloak, but that is for the old woman who 
wins.” 

This speech of Miss Lydia’s produced rather a mocking ex- 
pression in Mrs. Irwine’s face as she looked at Arthur, while 
Bessy came up and dropped a series of curtsies. 

“ This is Bessy Cranage, mother,” said Mr. Irwine, kindly, 
“Chad Cranage’s daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, 
the blacksmith ? ” 

“Yes, to be sure,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Well, Bessy, here is 
your prize — excellent warm things for winter. I ’m sure you 
have had hard work to win them this warm day.” 

Bessy’s lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown, — which 
felt so hot and disagreeable, too, on this July day, and was 
such a great ugly thing to carry. She dropped her curtsies 
again, without looking up, and with a growing tremulousness 
about the corners of her mouth, and then turned away. 

“ Poor girl,” said Arthur ; “I think she’s disappointed. I 
wish it had been something more to her taste.” 

“ She ’s a bold-looking young person,” observed Miss Lydia 
“Not at all one I should like to encourage.” 

Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present 
of money before the day "was over, that she might buy some- 
thing more to her mind ; but she, not aware of the consolation 
in store for her, turned out of the open space, where she was 
visible from the marquee, and throwing down the odious bun- 
dle under a tree, began to cry — very much tittered at the 
while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried 
by her discreet matronly cousin, wdio lost no time in coming 
up, having just given the baby into her husband’s charge. 


286 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ What ’s the matter wi’ ye ? ” said Bess the matron, taking 
ap the bundle and examining it. “ Ye hi sweltered yoursen, 
[ reckon, running that fool’s race. An’ here, they ’n gi’en 
you lots o’ good grogram and flannel, as should ha’ been gi’en 
by good rights to them as had the sense to keep away from 
such foolery. Ye might spare me a bit o’ this grogram to 
make clothes for the lad — ye war ne’er ill-natured, Bess ; I 
ne’er said that on ye.” 

“ Ye may take it all, for what I care,” said Bess the maiden, 
with a pettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears 
and recover herself. 

“ Well, I could do wi’t, if so be ye want to get rid on ’t,” 
said the disinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the 
bundle, lest Chad’s Bess should change her mind. 

But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity 
of spirits that secured her from any rankling grief ; and by 
the time the grand climax of the donkey-race came on, her 
disappointment was entirely lost in the delightful excitement 
of attempting to stimulate the last donkey by hisses, while 
the boys applied the argument of sticks. But the strength 
of the donkey inind lies in adopting a course inversely as the 
arguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a 
mental force as the direct sequence ; and the present donkey 
proved the first-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a 
dead standstill just when the blows were thickest. Great 
was the shouting of the crowd, radiant the grinning of Bill 
Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate rider of this supe- 
rior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in the midst of 
its triumph. 

Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and 
Bill was made happy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied 
with blades and gimlets enough to make a man at home on a 
desert island. He had hardly returned from the marquee 
with the prize in his hand, when it began to be understood 
that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, before the 
gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitous per- 
formance — namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was 
doubtless borrowed; but this was to be developed by the 


THE GAMES. 


287 


dancer in so peculiar and complex a manner that no one could 
deny him the praise of originality. Wiry Ben’s pride in his 
dancing — an accomplishment productive of great effect at the 
yearly Wake — had needed only slightly elevating by an extra 
quantity of good ale, to convince him that the gentry would 
be very much struck with his performance of the hornpipe ; 
and he had been decidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua 
Rann, who observed that it was nothing but right to do some- 
thing to please the young Squire, in return for what he had 
done for them. You will be the less surprised at this opinion 
in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had re- 
quested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and J oshua 
felt quite sure that though there might not be much in the 
dancing, the music would make up for it. Adam Bede, who 
was present in. one of the large marquees, where the plan was 
being discussed, told Ben he had better not make a fool of 
himself — a remark which at once fixed Ben’s determination : 
he was not going to let anything alone because Adam Bede 
turned up his nose at it. 

“ What ’s this, what ’s this ? ” said old Mr. Donnithorne. 
“ Is it something you ’ve arranged, Arthur ? Here ’s the clerk 
coming with his fiddle, and a smart fellow with a nosegay in 
his button-hole.” 

“No,” said Arthur; “I know nothing about it. By Jove, 
he ’s going to dance ! It ’s one of the carpenters — I forget 
his name at this moment.” 

“It’s Ben Cranage — Wiry Ben, they call him,” said Mr. 
Irwine ; “ rather a loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see 
that fiddle-scraping is too much for you : you ’re getting tired. 
Let me take you in now, that you may rest till dinner.” 

Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her 
away, while Joshua’s preliminary scrapings burst into the 
“ White Cockade,” from which he intended to pass to a 
variety of tunes, by a series of transitions which his good ear 
really taught him to execute with some skill. It would have 
been an exasperating fact to him, if he had known it, that 
the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben’s 
dancing for any one’ to give much heed to the music. 


288 


ADAM BEDE. 


Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo 
dance ? Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling 
like a merry countryman in crockery, with graceful turns of the 
haunch and insinuating movements of the head. That is as 
much like the real thing as the “Bird Waltz ” is like the song 
of birds. Wiry Ben never smiled : he looked as serious as a 
dancing monkey — as serious as if he had been an experi- 
mental philosopher ascertaining in his own person the amount 
of shaking and the varieties of angularity that could be given 
to the human limbs. 

To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped 
marquee, Arthur clapped his hands continually and cried 
“ Bravo ! ” But Ben had one admirer whose eyes followed 
his movements with a fervid gravity that equalled his own. 
It was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with 
Tommy between his legs. 

“ What dost think o’ that ? ” he said to his wife. “ He goes 
as pat to the music as if he was made o’ clockwork. I used 
to be a pretty good un at dancing myself when I was lighter, 
but I could niver ha’ hit it just to th’ hair like that.” 

“ It ’s little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking,” 
returned Mrs. Poyser. “ He ’s empty enough i’ the upper 
story, or he ’d niver come jigging an’ stamping i’ that way, 
like a mad grasshopper, for the gentry to look at him. They ’re 
fit to die wi’ laughing, I can see.” 

“Well, well, so much the better, it amuses ’em,” said Mr. 
Poyser, who did not easily take an irritable view of things. 
“ But they ’re going away now, t’ have their dinner, I reckon. 
We ’ll move about a bit, shall we ? and see what Adam Bede ’s 
doing. He ’s got to look after the drinking and things : I 
doubt he hasna had much fun.” 


THE DANCE. 


289 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE DAHCE. 

Arthur had chosen the entrance-hall for the ball-room 
very wisely, for no other room could have been so airy, or 
would have had the advantage of the wide doors opening into 
the garden, as well as a ready entrance into the other rooms. 
To be sure, a stone floor was not the pleasantest to dance on, 
but then, most of the dancers had known what it was to enjoy 
a Christmas dance on kitchen quarries. It was one of those 
entrance-halls which make the surrounding rooms look like 
closets — with stucco angels, trumpets, and flower-wreaths on 
the lofty ceiling, and great medallions of miscellaneous heroes 
on the walls, alternating with statues in niches. Just the 
sort of place to be ornamented well with green boughs, and 
Mr. Craig had been proud to show his taste and his hot-house 
plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone staircase 
were covered with cushions to serve as seats for the children, 
who were to stay till half-past nine with the servant-maids, to 
see the dancing ; and as this dance was confined to the chief 
tenants, there was abundant room for every one. The lights 
were charmingly disposed in colored-paper lamps, high up among 
green boughs, and the farmers’ wives and daughters, as they 
peeped in, believed no scene could be more splendid; they 
knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the king and queen 
lived, and their thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins 
and acquaintances who had not this fine opportunity of know- 
ing how things went on in the great world. The lamps were 
already lit, though the stin had not long set, and there was 
that calm light out of doors in which we seem to see all objects 
more distinctly than in the broad day. 

It was a pretty scene outside the house : the farmers and 
their families were moving about the lawn, among the flowers 
and shrubs, or along the broad straight road leading from the 
east front, where a carpet of mossy grass spread on each side, 

not. i. 


290 


ADAM BEDE. 


studded here and there with a dark flat-boughed cedar, or a 
grand pyramidal fir sweeping the ground with its branches, all 
tipped with a fringe of paler green. The groups of cottagers 
in the park were gradually diminishing, the young ones being 
attracted towards the lights that were beginning to gleam from 
the windows of the gallery in the abbey, which was to be their 
dancing-room, and some of the sober elder ones thinking it time 
to go home quietly. One of these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth 
went with her — not from filial attention only, for his con- 
science would not let him join in dancing. It had been rather 
a melancholy day to Seth : Dinah had never been more con- 
stantly present with him than in this scene, where everything 
was so unlike her. He saw her all the more vividly after 
looking at the thoughtless faces and gay-colored dresses of the 
young women — just as one feels the beauty and the greatness 
of a pictured Madonna the more, when it has been for a moment 
screened from us by a vulgar head in a bonnet. But this 
presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear the 
better with his mother’s mood, which had been becoming more 
and more querulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffer- 
ing from a strange conflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in 
the honor paid to her darling son Adam was beginning to be 
worsted in the conflict with the jealousy and fretfulness which 
had revived when Adam came to tell her that Captain Donni- 
thorne desired him to join the dancers in the hall. Adam was 
getting more and more out of her reach ; she wished all the old 
troubles back again, for then it mattered more to Adam what 
his mother said and did. 

“Eh, it’s fine talkin’ o’ dancin’,” she said, “an’ thy father 
not a five week in ’s grave. An’ I wish I war there too, 
istid o’ bein’ left to take up merrier folks’s room above 
ground.” 

“Hay, don’t look at it i’ that way, mother,” said Adam, who 
was determined to be gentle to her to-day. “ I don’t mean to 
d^nce — I shall only look on. And since the Captain wishes 
me to be there, it ’ud look as if I thought I knew better than 
him to say as I’d rather not stay. And thee know’st hew 
he ’s behaved to me to-day.” 


THE DANCE. 


291 


“ Eh, thee ’t do as thee lik’st, for thy old mother ’s got no 
right t’ hinder thee. She ’s nought but th’ old husk, and 
thee’st slipped away from her, like the ripe nut.” 

“Well, mother,” said Adam, “I’ll go and tell the Captain 
as it hurts thy feelings for me to stay, and I ’d rather go home 
upo’ that account : he won’t take it ill then, I dare say, and 
I’m willing.” He said this with some effort, for he really 
longed to be near Hetty this evening. 

“Nay, nay, I wonna ha’ thee do that — the young Squire 
’ull be angered. Go an’ do what thee ’t ordered to do, an’ me 
and Seth ’ull go whome. I know it ’s a grit honor for thee 
to be so looked on — an’ who ’s to be prouder on it nor thy 
mother ? Hadna she the cumber o’ rearin’ thee an’ doin’ for 
thee all these ’ears ? ” 

“Well, good-by, then, mother — good-by, lad — remember 
Gyp when you get home,” said Adam, turning away towards 
the gate of the pleasure-grounds, where he hoped he might 
be able to join the Poysers, for he had been so occupied 
throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak to 
Hetty. His eye soon detected a distant group, which he knew 
to be the right one, returning to the house along the broad 
gravel road, and he hastened on to meet them. 

“ Why, Adam, I ’m glad to get sight on y’ again,” said Mr. 
Poyser, who was carrying Totty on his arm. “You’re going 
t’ have a bit o’ fun, I hope, now your work ’s all done. And 
here ’s Hetty has promised no end o’ partners, an’ I ’ve just 
been askin’ her if she’d agreed to dance wi’ you, an’ she 
says no.” 

“ Well, I did n’t think o’ dancing to-night,” said Adam, aJ 
ready tempted to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty. 

“Nonsense ! ” said Mr. Poyser. “ Why, everybody ’s goin’ to 
dance to-night, all but th’ old Squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. 
Best ’s been tellin’ us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine ’ull 
dance, an’ the young Squire ’ull pick my wife for his first 
partner, t’ open the ball : so she ’ll be forced to dance, though 
she ’s laid by ever sin’ the Christmas afore the little un was 
born. You canna for shame stand still, Adam, an’ you a fine 
young fellow, and can dance as well as anybody.” 


292 


ADAM BEDE. 


“Nay, nay,” said Mrs. Poyser, “it ’ud be unbecoming. J 
know the dancin’s nonsense; but if you stick at everything 
because it ’s nonsense, you wonna go far i’ this life. When 
your broth ’s ready-made for you, you mun swallow the thick- 
enin’, or else let the broth alone.” 

“Then if Hetty ’ull dance with, me,” said Adam, yielding 
either to Mrs. Poyser’s argument or to something else, “ I ’ll 
lance whichever dance she ’s free.” 

“ I ’ve got no partner for the fourth dance,” said Hetty ; 
“ I ’ll dance that with you, if you like.” 

“ Ah,” said Mr. Poyser, “ but you mun dance the first dance, 
Adam, else it ’ll look partic’ler. There ’s plenty o’ nice part- 
ners to pick an’ cboose from, an’ it ’s hard for the gells when 
the men stan’ by and don’t ask ’em.” 

Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser’s observation : it would 
not do for him to dance with no one besides Hetty ; and re- 
membering that Jonathan Burge had some reason to feel 
hurt to-day, he resolved to ask Miss Mary to dance with him 
the first dance, if she had no other partner. 

“ There ’s the big clock strikin’ eight,” said Mr. Poyser ; 
“ we must make haste in now, else the Squire and the ladies 
’ull be in afore us, an’ that wouldna look well.” 

When they had entered the hall, and the three children 
under Molly’s charge had been seated on the stairs, the folding- 
doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur 
entered in his regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet- 
covered dais ornamented with hot-house plants, where she and 
Miss Anne were to be seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, that 
they might look on at the dancing, like the kings and queens 
in the plaj^s. Arthur had put on his uniform to please the 
tenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dignity 
as if it had been an elevation to the premiership. He had not 
the least objection to gratify them in that way : his uniform 
was very advantageous to his figure. 

The old Squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall 
to greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the wives : 
he was always* polite ; but the farmers had found out, after 
long puzzling, that this polish was one of the signs of hard- 


THE DANCE. 


298 


ness. It was observed that he gave his most elaborate civility 
to Mrs. Poyser to-night, inquiring particularly about her health, 
recommending her to strengthen herself with cold water as he 
did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked 
him with great self-command, but when he had passed on, 
she whispered to her husband, “ I ’ll lay my life he ’s brewin’ 
some nasty turn against us. Old Harry doesna wag his tail 
so for nothin’.” Mr. Poyser had no time to answer, for now 
Arthur came up and said, u Mrs. Poyser, I ’m come to request 
the favor of your hand for the first dance ; and, Mr. Poyser, 
you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as 
her partner.” 

The wife’s pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of 
unwonted honor as Arthur led her to the top of the room ; 
but Mr. Poyser, to whom an extra glass had restored his 
youthful confidence in his good looks and good dancing, 
walked along with them quite proudly, secretly flattering 
himself that Miss Lydia had never had a partner in her life 
who could lift her off the ground as he would. In order to 
balance the honors given to the two parishes, Miss Irwine 
danced with Luke Britton, the largest Broxton farmer, and 
Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seat- 
ing his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he 
had agreed with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merri- 
ment of the cottagers was prospering. Meanwhile, all the 
less distinguished couples had taken their places : Hetty was 
led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig, and Mary Burge by Adam ; 
and now the music struck up, and the glorious country-dance, 
best of all dances, began. 

Pity it was not a boarded floor ! Then the rhythmic stamp> 
ing of the thick shoes would have been better than any drums. 
That merry stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that 
waving bestowal of the hand — • where can we see them now ? 
That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying aside for 
an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering but not 
affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens 
by their side — that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands 
paying little compliments to their wives, as if their courting 


294 


ADAM BEDE. 


days were come again — those lads and lasses a little confused 
and awkward with their partners, having nothing to say — it 
would be a pleasant variety to see all that sometimes, instead 
of low dresses and large skirts, and scanning glances exploring 
costumes, and languid men in lackered boots smiling with 
double meaning. 

There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser’s pleasure in 
this dance : it was, that he was always in close contact with 
Luke Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a 
little glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of his hands ; 
but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the 
offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong person. So he gave 
his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments. 

How Hetty’s heart beat as Arthur approached her ! He had 
hardly looked at her to-day : now he must take her hand. 
Would he press it ? would he look at her ? She thought she 
would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling. How he was there 
■ — he had taken her hand — yes, he was pressing it. Hetty 
turned pale as she looked up at him for an instant and met his 
eyes, before the dance carried him away. That pale look came 
upon Arthur like the beginning of a dull pain, which clung to 
him, though he must dance and smile and joke all the same. 
Hetty would look so, when he told her what he had to tell 
her ; and he should never be able to bear it — he should be a 
fool and give way again. Hetty’s look did not really mean so 
much as he thought : it was only the sign of a struggle between 
the desire for him to notice her, and the dread lest she should 
betray the desire to others. But Hetty’s face had a language 
that transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature 
charges with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the single 
human soul that flutters beneath them, but speaking the joys 
and sorrows of foregone generations — eyes that tell of deep 
love which doubtless has been and is somewhere, but not paired 
with these eyes — perhaps paired with pale eyes that can say 
nothing ; just as a national language may be instinct with 
poetry unfelt by the lips that use it. That look of Hetty’s 
oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet had something of a 
terrble unconfessed delight in it, that she loved him too well 


THE DANCE. 


295 


There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he felt 
he would have given up three years of his youth for the hap- 
piness of abandoning himself without remorse to his passion 
for Hetty. 

These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led 
Mrs. Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and secretly re^ 
solving that neither judge nor jury should force her to dance 
another dance, to take a quiet rest in the dining-room, where 
supper was laid out for the guests to come and take it as they 
chose. 

“ I ’ve desired Hetty to remember as she ’s got to dance wi’ 
you, sir,” said the good innocent woman ; “ for she ’s so thought- 
less, she ’d be like enough to go an’ engage herself for ivery 
dance. So I told her not to promise too many.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said Arthur, not without a 
twinge. “ Now, sit down in this comfortable chair, and here 
is Mills ready to give you what you would like best.” 

He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due 
honor must be paid to the married women before he asked any 
of the young ones ; and the country-dances, and the stamping, 
and the gracious nodding, and the waving of the hands, went 
on joyously. 

At last the time had come for the fourth dance — longed for 
by the strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed 
youth of eighteen ; for we are all very much alike when we are 
in our first love ; and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty’s 
hand for more than a transient greeting — had never danced 
with her but once before. His eyes had followed her eagerly 
to-night in spite of himself, and had taken in deeper draughts 
of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so quietly ; she 
did not seem to be flirting at all, she smiled less than usual ; 
there was almost a sweet sadness about her. “ God bless 
her ! ” he said inwardly ; “I’d make her life a happy ’un, if 
a strong arm to work for her, and a heart to love her, could 
do it.” 

And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming 
home from work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling 
her cheek softly pressed against his, till he forgot where he 


296 


ADAM BEDE. 


was, and the music and the tread of feet might have been 
the falling of rain and the roaring of the wind, for what he 
knew. 

But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to 
her and claim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall 
near the staircase, whispering with Molly, who had just, given 
the sleeping To tty into her arms, before running to fetch 
shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken 
the two boys away into the dining-room to give them some 
cake before they went home in the cart with grandfather, and 
Molly was to follow as fast as possible. 

“ Let me hold her,” said Adam, as Molly turned up-stairs : 
“ the children are so heavy when they ’re asleep.” 

Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms, 
standing, was not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this 
second transfer had the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, 
who was not behind any child of her age in peevishness at an 
unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was in the act of placing 
her in Adam’s arms, and had not yet withdrawn her own, Totty 
opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist at 
Adam’s arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown 
beads round Hetty’s neck. The locket leaped out from her 
frock, and the next moment the string was broken, and Hetty, 
helpless, saw beads and locket scattered wide on the floor. 

“ My locket, my locket ! ” she said, in a loud frightened whis- 
per to Adam ; “ never mind the beads.” 

Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had at- 
tracted his glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen 
on the raised wooden dais where the band sat, not on the stone 
floor ; and as Adam picked it up, he saw the glass with the 
dark and light locks of hair under it. It had fallen that side 
upwards, so the glass was not broken. He turned it over on 
his hand, and saw the enamelled gold back. 

“ It is n’t hurt,” he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who 
was unable to take it because both her hands were occupied 
with Totty. 

“ Oh, it does n’t matter, I don’t mind about it,” said Hetty, 
who had been pale and was now red. 


THE DANCE. 


297 


“Not matter ? ” said Adam, gravely. “You seemed very 
frightened about it. I ’ll hold it till you ’re ready to take it^ ” 
he added, quietly closing his hand over it, that she might not 
think he wanted to look at it again. 

By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and 
as soon as she had taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in 
Hetty’s hand. She took it with an air of indifference, and put 
it in her pocket ; in her heart vexed and angry with Adam, 
because he had seen it, but determined now that she would 
show no more signs of agitation. 

“ See,” she said, “ they ’re taking their places to dance ; let 
us go.” 

Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken pos- 
session of him. Had Hetty a lover he did n’t know of ? — 
for none of her relations, he was sure, would give her a locket 
like that ; and none of her admirers, with whom he was ac- 
quainted, was in the position of an accepted lover, as the 
giver of that locket must be. Adam was lost in the utter im- 
possibility of finding any person for his fears to alight on : he 
could only feel with a terrible pang that there was something 
in Hetty’s life unknown to him ; that while he had been rock- 
ing himself in the hope that she would come to love him, she 
was already loving another. The pleasure of the dance with 
Hetty was gone ; his eyes, when they rested on her, had an 
uneasy questioning expression in them; he could think of 
nothing to say to her ; and she, too, was out of temper and dis- 
inclined to speak. They were both glad when the dance was 
ended. 

Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted 
him, and no one would notice if he slipped away. As soon as 
he got out of doors, he began to walk at his habitual rapid 
pace, hurrying along without knowing why, busy with the 
painful thought that the memory of this day, so full of honor 
and promise to him, was poisoned forever. Suddenly, when 
he was far on through the Chase, he stopped, startled by a 
flash of reviving hope. After all, he might be a fool, making 
a great misery out of a trifle. Hetty, fond of finery as she 
was, might have bought the thing herself. It looked too 


298 


ADAM BEDE. 


expensive for that — it looked liked the things on white satin 
in the great jeweller’s shop at Rosseter. But Adam had very 
imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he thought 
it could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps 
Hetty had had as much as that in Christmas boxes, and there 
was no knowing but she might have been childish enough to 
jpend it in that way ; she was such a young thing, and she 
could n’t help loving finery ! But then, why had she been so 
frightened about it at first, and changed color so, and after- 
wards pretended not to care ? Oh, that was because she was 
ashamed of his seeing that she had such a smart thing — she 
was conscious that it was wrong for her to spend her money 
on it, and she knew that Adam disapproved of finery. It was 
a proof she cared about what he liked and disliked. She must 
have thought from his silence and gravity afterwards that he 
was very much displeased with her, that he was inclined to be 
harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he walked on 
more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only un- 
easiness was that he had behaved in a way which might chill 
Hetty’s feeling towards him. For this last view of the matter 
must be the true one. How could Hetty have an accepted 
lover, quite unknown to him ? She was never away from her 
uncle’s house for more than a day ; she could have no acquaint- 
ances that did not come there, and no intimacies unknown to 
her uncle and aunt. It would be folly to believe that the 
locket was given to her by a lover. The little ring of dark 
hair he felt sure was her own ; he could form no guess about 
the light hair under it, for he had not seen it very distinctly. 
It might be a bit of her father’s or mother’s, who had died 
when she was a child, and she would naturally put a bit of her 
own along with it. 

And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for him- 
self an ingenious web of probabilities — the surest screen a 
wise man can place between himself and the truth. His last 
waking thoughts melted into a dream that he was with Hetty 
again at the Hall Farm, and that he was asking her to forgive 
him for being so cold and silent. 

And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty 


THE DA^UE. 


299 


to the dance, and saying to her in low hurried tones, “ I shall 
be in the wood the day after to-morrow at seven ; come as 
early as you can.” And Hetty’s foolish joys and hopes, which 
had flown away for a little space, scared by a mere nothing, 
now all came fluttering back, unconscious of the real peril. 
She was happy for the first time this long day, and wished 
that dance would last for hours. Arthur wished it too; it 
was the last weakness he meant to indulge in; and a man 
never lies with more delicious languor under the influence of 
a passion, than when he has persuaded himself that he shall 
subdue it to-morrow. 

But Mrs. Poyser’s wishes were quite the reverse of this, for 
her mind was filled with dreary forebodings as to the retarda- 
tion of to-morrow morning’s cheese in consequence of these 
late hours. Now that Hetty had done her duty and danced one 
dance with the young Squire, Mr. Poyser must go out and see 
if the cart was come back to fetch them, for it was half-past 
ten o’clock, and notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part 
that it would be bad manners for them to be the first to go, 
Mrs. Poyser was resolute on the point, “ manners or no man- 
ners.” 

“ What ! going already, Mrs. Poyser ? ” said old Mr. Donni- 
thorne, as she came to curtsy and take leave ; “ I thought we 
should not part with any of our guests till eleven : Mrs. Irwine 
and I, who are elderly people, think of sitting out the dance 
till then.” 

“ Oh, your honor, it ’s all right and proper for gentlefolks 
to stay up by candle-light — they’ve got no cheese on their 
minds. We ’re late enough as it is, an ; there’s no lettin’ the 
cows know as they mustn’t want to be milked so early to- 
morrow mornin’. So, if you ’ll please t’ excuse us, we ’ll take 
our leave.” 

“ Eh ! ” she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, 
“ I ’d sooner ha’ brewin’ day and washin’ day together than 
one o’ these pleasurin’ days. There ’s no work so tirin’ as 
danglin’ about an’ starin’ an’ not rightly knowin’ what you ’re 
goin’ to do next ; and keepin’ your face i’ smilin’ order like a 
grocer o’ market-day for fear people shouldna think you civil 


300 


ADAM BEDE. 


enough. An’ you ’ve nothing to show for ’t when it ’s done, if 
it is n’t a yallow face wi’ eatin’ things as disagree.” 

“ Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, 
and felt that he had had a great day, “ a bit o’ pleasuring ’s 
good for thee sometimes. An’ thee danc’st as well as any of 
’em, for I ’ll back thee against all the wives i’ the parish for a 
light foot an’ ankle. An’ it was a great honor for the young 
Squire to ask thee first — I reckon it was because I sat at th’ 
head o’ the table an’ made the speech. An’ Hetty too — she 
never had such a partner before — a fine young gentleman in 
reg’mentals. It ’ll serve you to talk on, Hetty, when you ’re 
an old woman — how you danced wi’ th’ young Squire the da^ 
he come o’ age.” 














































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A View ok “Eagledale,” (Dovedale). 



BOOK IV. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A CRISIS. 

It was beyond the middle of August — nearly three weeks 
after the birthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun 
in our north midland county of Loamshire, but the harvest 
was likely still to be retarded by the heavy rains, which were 
causing inundations and much damage throughout the country. 
Erom this last trouble the Broxton and Hayslope farmers, on 
their pleasant uplands, and in their brook-watered valleys, had 
not suffered, and as I cannot pretend that they were such ex- 
ceptional farmers as to love the general good better than their 
own, you will infer that they were not in very low spirits 
about the rapid rise in the price of bread, so long as there was 
hope of gathering in their own corn undamaged ; and occa- 
sional days of sunshine and drying winds flattered this hope. 

The 18th of August was one of these days, when the sun- 
shine looked brighter in all eyes for the gloom that went 
before. Grand masses of cloud were hurried across the blue, 
and the great round hills behind the Chase seemed alive with 
their flying shadows ; the sun was hidden for a moment, and 
then shone out warm again like a recovered joy ; the leaves, 
still green, were tossed off the hedgerow trees by the wind ; 
around the farmhouses there was a sound of clapping doors ; 
the apples fell in the orchards ; and the stray horses on the 
green sides of the lanes and on the common had their manes 
blown about their faces. And yet the wind seemed only part 
of the general gladness because the sun was shining. A merry 
dav for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they could 


302 


ADAM BEDE. 


top the wind with their voices ; and the grown-up people, toOj 
were in good spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when 
the wind had fallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough to 
be blown out of the husk and scattered as untimely seed ! 

And yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon a 
man. For if it be true that Nature at certain moments seems 
charged with a presentiment of one individual lot, must it not 
also be true that she seems unmindful, unconscious of another ? 
For there is no hour that has not its births of gladness and 
despair, no morning brightness that does not bring new sick- 
ness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love. 
There are so many of us, and our lots are so different : what 
wonder that Nature’s mood is often in harsh contrast with the 
great crisis of our lives ? We are children of a large family, 
and must learn, as such children do, not to expect that our 
hurts will be made much of — to be content with little nurture 
and caressing, and help each other the more. 

It was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost 
double work ; for he was continuing to act as foreman for 
J onathan Burge, until some satisfactory person could be found 
to supply his place, and Jonathan was slow to find that person. 
But he had done the extra work cheerfully, for his hopes were 
buoyant again about Hetty. Every time she had seen him 
since the birthday, she had seemed to make an effort to behave 
all the more kindly to him, that she might make him under- 
stand she had forgiven his silence and coldness during the 
dance. He had never mentioned the locket to her again ; too 
happy that she smiled at him — still happier because he ob- 
served in her a more subdued air, something that he interpreted 
as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness. “ Ah 1 ” 
he thought, again and again, “ she ’s only seventeen ; she ’ll be 
thoughtful enough after a while. And her aunt allays says 
how clever she is at the work. She ’ll make a wife as mother ’ll 
have no occasion to grumble at, after all.” To be sure, he had 
only seen her at home twice since the birthday ; for one Sun- 
day, when he was intending to go from church to the Hall 
Farm, Hetty had joined the party of upper servants from the 
Chase, and had gone home with then> —almost as if she were 


A CRISIS. 


303 


inclined to encourage Mr. Craig. “ Slie ’s takin* too much 
likin’ to them folks i’ the housekeeper’s room,” Mrs. Poyser 
remarked. “For my part, I was never over-fond o’ gentle- 
folks ’s servants — they ’re mostly like the fine ladies’ fat dogs, 
nayther good for barking nor butcher’s meat, but on’y for 
show.” And another evening she was gone to Treddleston 
to buy some things ; though, to his great surprise, as he was 
returning home, he saw her at a distance getting over a stile 
quite out of the Treddleston road. But, when he hastened to 
her, she was very kind, and asked him to go in again when he 
had taken her to the yard gate. She had gone a little farther 
into the fields after coming from Treddleston, because she 
did n’t want to go in, she said : it was so nice to be out of 
doors, and her aunt always made such a fuss about it if she 
wanted to go out. “ Oh, do come in with me ! ” she said, as 
he was going to shake hands with her at the gate, and he could 
not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser was contented 
with only a slight remark on Hetty’s being later than was 
expected; while Hetty, who had looked out of spirits when 
he met her, smiled and talked, and waited on them all with 
unusual promptitude. 

That was the last time he had seen her ; but he meant to 
make leisure for going to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, he 
knew, was her day for going to the Chase to sew with the 
lady’s-maid, so he would get as much work done as possible 
this evening, that the next might be clear. 

One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some 
slight repairs at the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto oc- 
cupied by Satchell, as bailiff, but which it was now rumored 
that the old Squire was going to let to a smart man in top- 
boots, who had been seen to ride over it one day. Nothing 
but the desire to get a tenant could account for the Squire’s 
undertaking repairs, though the Saturday-evening party at 
M r , Casson’s agreed over their pipes that no man in his senses 
w^uld take the Chase Farm unless there was a bit more plough- 
land laid to it. However that might be, the repairs were 
ordered to be executed with all despatch ; and Adam, acting 
for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order with his usual 


304 


ADAM BEDE. 


energy. But today, having been occupied elsewhere, he had 
not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in the after- 
noon; and he then discovered that some old roofing, which 
he had calculated on preserving, had given way. There was 
clearly no good to be done with this part of the building with- 
out pulling it all down ; and Adam immediately saw in his 
mind a plan for building it up again, so as to make the most 
convenient of cow-sheds and calf-pens, with a hovel for imple- 
ments ; and all without any great expense for materials. So, 
when the workmen were gone, he sat down, took out his 
pocket-book, and busied himself with sketching a plan, and 
making a specification of the expenses, that he might show it 
to Burge the next morning, and set him on persuading the 
Squire to consent. To “make a good job” of anything, how- 
ever small, was always a pleasure to Adam ; and he sat on a 
block, with his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low 
every now and then, and turning his head on one side with a 
just perceptible smile of gratification — of pride, too, for if 
Adam loved a bit of good work, he loved also to think, “I did 
it ! ” And I believe the only people who are free from that 
weakness are those who have no work to call their own. It 
was nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket 
again ; and on giving a last look round, he observed that Seth, 
who had been working here to-day, had left his basket of tools 
behind him. “ Why, th’ lad ’s forgot his tools,” thought Adam, 
“ and he ’s got to work up at the shop to-morrow. There never 
was such a chap for wool-gathering ; he ’d leave his head behind 
him, if it was loose. However, it ’s lucky I ’ve seen ’em ; I ’ll 
carry ’em home.” 

The buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity of 
the Chase, at about ten minutes’ walking distance from the 
Abbey. Adam had come thither on his pony, intending to 
ride to the stables, and put up his nag on his way home. At 
the stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had come to look at 
the Captain’s new horse, on which he was to ride away the 
day after to-morrow ; and Mr. Craig detained him to tell how 
ail the servants were to collect at the gate of the courtyard to 
wish the young Squire luck as he rode out; so that by the 


A CRISIS. 


305 


time Adam had got into the Chase, and was striding along 
with the basket of tools over his shoulder, the sun was on the 
point of setting, and was sending level crimson rays among 
the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every bare 
patch of ground with a transient glory, that made it look like 
a jewel dropt upon the grass. The wind had fallen now, and 
there was only enough breeze to stir the delicate-stemmed 
leaves. Any one who had been sitting in the house all day 
would have been glad to walk now ; but Adam had been quite 
enough in the open air to wish to shorten his way home ; and 
he bethought himself that he might do so by striking across 
the Chase and going through the Grove, where he had never 
been for years. He hurried on across the Chase, stalking 
along the narrow paths between the fern, with Gyp at his 
heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent changes of the 
light — hardly once thinking of it — yet feeling its presence 
in a certain calm happy awe which mingled itself with his 
busy working-day thoughts. How could he help feeling it ? 
The very deer felt it, and were more timid. 

Presently Adam’s thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had 
said about Arthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, 
and the changes that might take place before he came back ; 
then they travelled back affectionately over the old scenes of 
boyish companionship, and dwelt on Arthur’s good qualities, 
which Adam had a pride in, as we all have in the virtues of 
the superior who honors us. A nature like Adam’s, with a 
great need of love and reverence in it, depends for so much of 
its happiness on what it can believe and feel about others ! 
And he had no ideal world of dead heroes ; he knew little of 
the life of men in the past ; he must find the beings to whom 
he could cling with loving admiration among those who came 
within speech of him. These pleasant thoughts about Arthur 
brought a milder expression than usual into his keen rough 
face : perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened the 
old green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp, 
and say a kind word to him. 

After that pause, he strode on again along the broad wind- 
ing path through the Grove. What grand beeches 1 Ad^» 


306 


ADAM BEDE. 


delighted in a fine tree of all things ; as the fisherman’s sight 
is keenest on the sea, so Adam’s perceptions were more at 
home with trees than with other objects. He kept them in 
his memory, as a painter does, with all the flecks and knots 
in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs and 
had often calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a. 
nicety, as he stood looking at it. No wonder that, notwith- 
standing his desire to get on, he could not help pausing to 
look at a curious large beech which he had seen standing 
before him at a turning in the road, and convince himself that 
it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For the 
rest of his life he remembered that moment when he was 
calmly examining the beech, as a man remembers his last 
glimpse of the home where his youth was passed, before the 
road turned, and he saw it no more. The beech stood at the 
last turning before the Grove ended in an archway of boughs 
that let in the eastern light ; and as Adam stepped away from 
the tree to continue his walk, his eyes fell on two figures about 
twenty yards before him. 

He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost 
as pale. The two figures were standing opposite to each 
other, with clasped hands about to part ; and while they were 
bending to kiss, Gyp, who had been running among the brush- 
wood, came out, caught sight of them, and gave a sharp bark. 
They separated with a start — one hurried through the gate 
out of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, 
with a sort of saunter, towards Adam, who still stood trans- 
fixed and pale, clutching tighter the stick with which he held 
the basket of tools over his shoulder, and looking at the ap- 
proaching figure with eyes in which amazement was fast 
turning to fierceness. 

Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had 
tried to make unpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking 
a little more wine than usual at dinner to-day, and was still 
enough under its flattering influence to think more lightly of 
this unwished-for rencontre with Adam than he would other- 
wise have done. After all, Adam was the best person who 
could have happened to sec him and Hetty together : he was 


A CRISIS. 


307 

a sensible fellow, and would not babble about it to other people. 
Arthur felt confident that he could laugh the thing off, and 
explain it away. And so he sauntered forward with elaborate 
carelessness - — his flushed face, his evening dress of fine cloth 
and fine linen, his hands half thrust into his waistcoat pockets, 
all shone upon by the strange evening light which the light 
clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were now 
shedding down between the topmost branches above him. 

Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. 
He understood it all now — the locket, and everything else 
that had been doubtful to him : a terrible scorching light 
showed him the hidden letters that changed the meaning of 
the past. If he had moved a muscle, he must inevitably have 
sprung upon Arthur like a tiger ; and in the conflicting emo- 
tions that filled those long moments, he had told himself that 
he would not give loose to passion, he would only speak the 
right thing. He stood as if petrified by an unseen force, but 
the force was his own strong will. 

“ Well, Adam,” said Arthur, “you’ve been looking at the 
fine old beeches, eh ? They ’re not to be come near by the 
hatchet, though; this is a sacred grove. I overtook pretty 
little Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to my den — the Hermit- 
age, there. She ought not to come home this way so late. 
So I took care of her to the gate, and asked for a kiss for my 
pains. But I must get back now, for this road is confoundedly 
damp. Good-night, Adam : I shall see you to-morrow — to 
say good-by, you know.” 

Arthur was too much preoccupied with the part he was 
playing himself to be thoroughly aware of the expression in 
Adam’s face. He did not look directly at Adam, but glanced 
carelessly round at the trees, and then lifted up one foot to 
look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say no more ; he had 
thrown quite dust enough into honest Adam’s eyes ; and as he 
spoke the last words, he walked on. 

“ Stop a bit, sir,” said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, 
without turning round. “I ’ve got a word to say to you.” 

Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more 
affected by a change of tone than by unexpected words, and 


308 


ADAM BEDE. 


Arthur had the susceptibility of a nature at once affectionate 
and vain. He was still more surprised when he saw that 
Adam had not moved, but stood with his back to him, as if 
summoning him to return. What did he mean ? He was 
going to make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt 
his temper rising. A patronizing disposition always has its 
meaner side, and in the confusion of his irritation and alarm 
there entered the feeling that a man to whom he had shown 
so much favor as to Adam, was not in a position to criticise 
his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feels 
himself in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion 
he cares for. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much 
deprecation as auger in his voice when he said — 

“ What do you mean, Adam ? ” 

“ I mean, sir,” answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, 
still without turning round, — “I mean, sir, that you don’t 
deceive me by your light words. This is not the first time 
you’ve met Hetty Sorrel in this grove, and this is not the 
first time you ’ve kissed her.” 

Arthur felt a startled uncertainty how far Adam was speak- 
ing from knowledge, and how far from mere inference. And 
this uncertainty, which prevented him from contriving a pru- 
dent answer, heightened his irritation. He said, in a high 
sharp tone — 

“ Well, sir, what then ? ” 

“ Why, then, instead of acting like th’ upright, honorable 
man we ’ve all believed you to be, you ’ve been acting the part 
of a selfish light-minded scoundrel. You know, as well as I 
do, what it ’s to lead to, when a gentleman like you kisses and 
makes love to a young woman like Hetty, and gives her pres- 
ents as she ’s frightened for other folks to see. And I say it 
again, you ’re acting the part of a selfish light-minded scoun- 
drel, though it cuts me to th’ heart to say so, and I ’d rather 
ha’ lost my right hand.” 

“ Let me tell you, Adam,” said Arthur, bridling his growing 
anger, and trying to recur to his careless tone, “ you ’re not 
only devilishly impertinent, but you ’re talking nonsense. 
Every pretty girl is not such a fool as you, to suppose that 


CRISIS. 


309 


when a gentleman admires her beauty, and pays her a little 
attention, he must mean something particular. Every man 
likes to flirt with a pretty girl, and every pretty girl likes to 
be flirted with. The wider the distance between them the less 
harm there is, for then she’s not likely to deceive herself.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by flirting,” said Adam, 
“ but if you mean behaving to a woman as if you loved her, 
and yet not loving her all the while, I say that’s not th’ action 
of an honest man, and what is n’t honest does come t’ harm. 
I ’m not a fool, and you ’re not a fool, and you know better 
than what you ’re saying. You know it could n’t be made 
public as you’ve behaved to Hetty as y’ have done without her 
losing her character, and bringing shame and trouble on her 
and her relations. What if you meant nothing by your kiss- 
ing and your presents? Other folks won’t believe as you’ve 
meant nothing; and don’t tell me about her not deceiving 
herself. I tell you as you ’ve filled her mind so with the 
thought of you, as it’ll mayhap poison her life ; and she’ll 
never love another man as ’ud make her a good husband.” 

Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; 
he perceived that Adam had no positive knowledge of the 
past, and that there was no irrevocable damage done by this 
evening’s unfortunate rencontre. Adam could still be de- 
ceived. The candid Arthur had brought himself into a posi- 
tion in which successful lying was his only hope. The hope 
allayed his anger a little. 

“Well, Adam,” he said, in a tone of friendly concession, 
“you’re perhaps right. Perhaps I’ve gone a little too far in 
taking notice of the pretty little thing, and stealing a kiss 
now and then. You ’re such a grave, steady fellow, you 
don’t understand the temptation to such trifling. I’m sure I 
would n’t bring any trouble or annoyance on her and the good 
Poysers on any account if I could help it. But I think you 
look a little too seriously at it. You know I’m going away 
immediately, so I shan’t make any more mistakes of the kind. 
But let us say good-night, ” — Arthur here turned round to 
walk on, — “and talk no more about the matter. The whole 
thing will soon be forgotten.” 


810 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ No, by God ! ” Adam burst out with rage that could be 
controlled no longer, throwing down the basket of tools, and 
striding forward till he was right in front of Arthur. All his 
jealousy and sense of personal injury, which he had been 
hitherto trying to keep under, had leaped up and mastered 
him. What man of us, in the first moments of a sharp agony, 
could ever feel that the fellow-man who has been the medium 
of inflicting it, did not mean to hurt us ? In our instinctive 
rebellion against pain, we are children again, and demand an 
active will to wreak our vengeance on. Adam at this moment 
could only feel that he had been robbed of Hetty — robbed 
treacherously by the man in whom he had trusted; and he 
stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaring at him, 
with pale lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which 
he had hitherto been constraining himself to express no more 
than a just indignation, giving way to a deep agitated voice 
that seemed to shake him as he spoke. 

“No, it’ll not be soon forgot, as you’ve come in between 
her and me, when she might ha’ loved me — it ’ll not soon be 
forgot as you ’ve robbed me o’ my happiness, while I thought 
you was my best friend, and a noble-minded man, as I was 
proud to work for. And you ’ve been kissing her, and mean- 
ing nothing, have you ? And I never kissed her i’ my life — 
but I ’d ha’ worked hard for years for the right to kiss her. 
And you make light of it. You think little o’ doing what 
may damage other folks, so as you get your bit o’ trifling, as 
means nothing. I throw back your favors, for you ’re not the 
man I took you for. I ’ll never count you my friend any more. 
I ’d rather you ’d act as my enemy, and fight me where I stand 
— ■ it ’s all th’ amends you can make me.” 

Poor Adam, possessed by rage that could find no other vent, 
began to throw off his coat and his cap, too blind with passion 
to notice the change that had taken place in Arthur while he 
was speaking. Arthur’s lips were now as pale as Adam’s ; 
his heart was beating violently. The discovery that Adam 
loved Hetty was a shock which made him for the moment see 
himself in the light of Adam’s indignation, and regard Adam’s 
suffering as not merely a consequence, but an element of his 


A CRISIS. 


311 


error. The words of hatred and contempt — the first he had 
ever heard in his life — seemed like scorching missiles that 
were making ineffaceable scars on him. All screening self- 
excuse, which rarely falls quite away while others respect us, 
forsook him for an instant, and he stood face to face with the 
first great irrevocable evil he had ever committed. He was 
only twenty-one — and three months ago — nay, much later — 
he had thought proudly that no man should ever be able to 
reproach him justly. His first impulse, if there had been 
time for it, would perhaps have been to utter words of pro- 
pitiation ; but Adam had no sooner thrown off his coat and 
cap, than he became aware that Arthur was standing pale 
and motionless, with his hands still thrust in his waistcoat 
pockets. 

“ What ! ” he said, “ won’t you fight me like a man ? You 
know I won’t strike you while you stand so.” 

“ Go away, Adam,” said Arthur, “ I don’t want to fight you.” 

“No,” said Adam, bitterly; “you don’t want to fight me, 
— you think I ’m a common man, as you can injure without 
answering for it.” 

“ I never meant to injure you,” said Arthur, with returning 
anger. “ I did n’t know you loved her.” 

“But you’ve made her love you” said Adam. “You’re a 
double-faced man — I ’ll never believe a word you say again.” 

“Go away, I tell you,” said Arthur, angrily, “or we shall 
both repent.” 

“No,” said Adam, with a convulsed voice, “I swear I won’t 
go away without fighting you. Do you want provoking any 
more ? I tell you you ’re a coward and a scoundrel, and I 
despise you.” 

The color had all rushed back to Arthur’s face ; in a moment 
his right hand was clenched, and dealt a blow like lightning, 
which sent Adam staggering backward. His blood was as 
thoroughly up as Adam’s now, and the two men, forgetting 
the emotions that had gone before, fought with the instinctive 
fierceness of panthers in the deepening twilight darkened by 
the trees. The delicate-handed gentleman was a match for 
the workman in everything but strength, Arthur’s skill 


312 


ADAM BEDE. 


enabled him to protract the struggle for some long moments. 
But between unarmed men the battle is to the strong, where 
the strong is no blunderer, and Arthur must sink under a well- 
planted blow of Adam’s, as a steel rod is broken by an iron 
bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lying 
concealed in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern 
his darkly clad body. 

He stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise. 

The blow had been given now, towards which he had been 
straining all the force of nerve and muscle — and what was 
the good of it ? What had he done by fighting ? Only satis- 
fied his own passion, only wreaked his own vengeance. He 
had not rescued Hetty, nor changed the past — there it was 
just as it had been, and he sickened at the vanity of his own 
rage. 

But why did not Arthur rise ? He was perfectly motion- 
less, and the time seemed long to Adam. . . . Good God ! had 
the blow been too much for him ? Adam shuddered at the 
thought of his own strength, as with the oncoming of this 
dread he knelt down by Arthur’s side and lifted his head from 
among the fern. There was no sign of life: the eyes and 
teeth were set. The horror that rushed over Adam completely 
mastered him, and forced upon him its own belief. He could 
feel nothing but that death was in Arthur’s face, and that he 
was helpless before it. He made not a single movement, but 
knelt like an image of despair gazing at an image of death. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A DILEMMA. 

It was only a few minutes measured by the clock — though 
Adam always thought it had been a long while — before he 
perceived a gleam of consciousness in Arthur’s face and a 
slight shiver through his frame. The intense joy that flooded 
his soul brought back some of the old affection with it. 


A DILEMMA. 313 

u Do you feel any pain, sir ? ” he said, tenderly, loosening 
Arthur’s cravat. 

Arthur turned his eyes on Adam with a vague stare which 
gave way to a slightly startled motion as if from the shock 
of returning memory. But he only shivered again and said 
nothing. 

“Do you feel any hurt, sir?” Adam said again, with a 
trembling in his voice. 

Arthur put his hand up to his waistcoat buttons, and when 
Adam had unbuttoned it, he took a longer breath. “ Lay my 
head down,” he said, faintly, “ and get me some water if you 
can.” 

Adam laid the head down gently on the fern again, and 
emptying the tools out of the flag-basket, hurried through the 
trees to the edge of the Grove bordering on the Chase, where 
a brook ran below the bank. 

When he returned with his basket leaking, but still half 
full, Arthur looked at him with a more thoroughly reawakened 
consciousness. 

“ Can you drink a drop out o’ your hand, sir ? ” said Adam, 
kneeling down again to lift up Arthur’s head. 

“ No,” said Arthur, “ dip my cravat in and souse it on my 
head.” 

The water seemed to do him some good, for he presently 
raised himself a little higher, resting on Adam’s arm. 

“ Do you feel any hurt inside, sir ? ” Adam asked again. 

“No — no hurt,” said Arthur, still faintly, “but rather done 
up.” 

After a while he said, “ I suppose I fainted away when you 
knocked me down.” 

“Yes, sir, thank God,” said Adam. “I thought it was 
worse.” 

« What ! you thought you ’d done for me, eh ? come, help 
me on my legs.” 

“ I feel terribly shaky and dizzy,” Arthur said, as he stood 
leaning on Adam’s arm; “that blow of yours must have come 
against me like a battering-ram. T don’t believe I can walk 
alone.” 


314 


ADAM BEDE. 


" Lean on me, sir ; I ’ll get you along,” said Adam. " Or, 
will you sit down a bit longer, on my coat here ? and I ’ll prop 
y’ up. You ’ll perhaps be better in a minute or two.” 

" No,” said Arthur. "I’ll go to the Hermitage — I think 
I ’re got some brandy there. There ’s a short road to it a lit 
tie further on, near the gate. If you ’ll just help me on.” 
i They walked slowly, with frequent pauses, but without 
speaking again. In both of them, the concentration in the 
present which had attended the first moments of Arthur’s 
revival, had now given way to a vivid recollection of the pre- 
vious scene. It was nearly dark in the narrow path among 
the trees, but within the circle of fir-trees round the Hermit- 
age there was room for the growing moonlight to enter in at 
the windows. Their steps were noiseless on the thick carpet 
of fir-needles, and the outward stillness seemed to heighten 
their inward consciousness, as Arthur took the key out of his 
pocket and placed it in Adam’s hand, for him to open the door. 
Adam had not known before that Arthur had furnished the 
old Hermitage and made it a retreat for himself, and it was a 
surprise to him when he opened the door to see a snug room 
with all the signs of frequent habitation. 

Arthur loosed Adam’s arm and threw himself on the otto- 
man. " You ’ll see my hunting-bottle somewhere,” he said. 
" A leather case with a bottle and glass in.” 

Adam was not long in finding the case. "There’s very 
little brandy in it, sir,” he said, turning it downwards over 
the glass, as he held it before the window, " hardly this little 
glassful.” 

"Well, give me that,” said Arthur, with the peevishness of 
physical depression. When he had taken some sips, Adam 
said, " Had n’t I better run to th’ house, sir, and get some 
more brandy ? I can be there and back pretty soon. It ’ll be 
a stiff walk home for you, if you don’t have something to 
revive you.” 

" Yes — go. But don’t say I ’m ill. Ask for my man Pym, 
and tell him to get it from Mills, and not to say I ’m at the 
Hermitage. Get some water too.” 

Adam was relieved to have an active task — both of thepj 


A DILEMMA. 


315 


were relieved to be apart from each other for a short time. 
But Adam’s swift pace could not still the eager pain of think* 
ing — of living again with concentrated suffering through the 
last wretched hour, and looking out from it over all the new, 
sad future. 

Arthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, but 
presently he rose feebly from the ottoman and peered about 
slowly in the broken moonlight, seeking something. It was 
a short bit of wax candle that stood amongst a confusion of 
writing and drawing materials. There was more searching for 
the means of lighting the candle, and when that was done, he 
went cautiously round the room, as if wishing to assure him- 
self of the presence or absence of something. At last he had 
found a slight thing, which he put first in his pocket, and then, 
on a second thought, took out again, and thrust deep down 
into a waste-paper basket. It was a woman’s little pink silk 
neckerchief. He set the candle on the table, and threw him- 
self down on the ottoman again, exhausted with the effort. 

When Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance 
awoke Arthur from a doze. 

“ That ’s right,” Arthur said ; “ I ’m tremendously in want 
of some brandy-vigor.” 

“ I ’m glad to see you ’ve got a light, sir,” said Adam. “ I ’ve 
been thinking I ’d better have asked for a lanthorn.” 

“No, no; the candle will last long enough — I shall soon 
be up to walking home now.” 

“I can’t go before I ’ve seen you safe home, sir,” said Adam, 
hesitatingly. 

“ No : it will be better for you to stay — sit down.” 

Adam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other 
in uneasy silence, while Arthur slowly drank brandy-and-water, 
with visibly renovating effect. He began to lie in a more vol- 
untary position, and looked as if he were less overpowered by 
bodily sensations. Adam was keenly alive to these indica- 
tions, and as his anxiety about Arthur’s condition began to 
be allayed, he felt more of that impatience which every one 
knows who has had his just indignation suspended by the 
physical state of the culprit. Yet there was one thing on his 


316 


ADAM BEDE. 


mind to be done before be could recur to remonstrance : it was 
to confess wbat bad been unjust in bis own words. Perhaps 
he longed all the more to make this confession, that his indig- 
nation might be free again ; and as he saw the signs of return- 
ing ease in Arthur, the words again and again came to his 
lips and went back, checked by the thought that it would be 
better to leave everything till to-morrow. As long as they 
were silent they did not look at each other, and a foreboding 
came across Adam that if they began to speak as though they 
remembered the past — if they looked at each with full recog- 
nition — they must take fire again. So they sat in silence till 
the bit of wax candle flickered low in the socket ; the silence 
all the while becoming more irksome to Adam. Arthur had 
just poured out some more brandy -and-w at er, and he threw 
one arm behind his head and drew up one leg in an attitude 
of recovered ease, which was an irresistible temptation to 
Adam to speak what was on his mind. 

“ You begin to feel more yourself again, sir,” he said, as the 
candle went out, and they were half-hidden from each other in 
the faint moonlight. 

“Yes: I don’t feel good for much — very lazy, and not 
inclined to move ; but I ’ll go home when I ’ve taken this 
dose.” 

There was a slight pause before Adam said — 

“ My temper got the better of me, and I said things as was n’t 
true. I ’d no right to speak as if you ’d known you was doing 
me an injury : you ’d no grounds for knowing it ; I ’ve always 
kept what I felt for her as secret as I could.” 

He paused again before he went on. 

“ And perhaps I judged you too harsh — I’m apt to be harsh ; 
and you may have acted out o’ thoughtlessness more than I 
should ha’ believed was possible for a man with a heart and 
a conscience. We ’re not all put together alike, and we may 
misjudge one another. God knows, it ’s all the joy I could 
have now, to think the best of you.” 

Arthur wanted to go home without saying any more — he 
was too painfully embarrassed in mind, as well as too weak in 
body, to wish for any further explanation to-night. And yet 


A DILEMMA. 


317 


it was a relief to him that Adam reopened the subject in a 
way the least difficult for him to answer. Arthur was in the 
wretched position of an open, generous man, who has committed 
an error which makes deception seem a necessity. The native 
impulse to give truth in return for truth, to meet trust with 
frank confession, must be suppressed, and duty was become a 
question of tactics. His deed was reacting upon him — was 
already governing him tyrannously, and forcing him into a 
course that jarred with his habitual feelings. The only aim 
that seemed admissible to him now was to deceive Adam 
to the utmost : to make Adam think better of him than he 
deserved. And, when he heard the words of honest retracta- 
tion — when he heard the sad appeal with which Adam ended 
— he was obliged to rejoice in the remains of ignorant confi- 
dence it implied. He did not answer immediately, for he had 
to be judicious and not truthful. 

44 Say no more about our anger, Adam,” he said at last, very 
languidly, for the labor of speech was unwelcome to him; 44 1 
forgive your momentary injustice — it was quite natural, with 
the exaggerated notions you had in your mind. We shall be 
none the worse friends in luture, I hope, because we 've fought : 
you had the best of it, and that was as it should be, for I 
believe I 've been most in the wrong of the two. Come, let us 
shake hands.” 

Arthur held out his hand, but Adam sat still. 

44 I don't like to say 4 No ' to that, sir,” he said, 44 but I can't 
shake hands till it ’s clear what we mean by 't. I was wrong 
when I spoke as if you 'd done me an injury knowingly, but I 
was n't wrong in what I said before, about your v behavior t’ 
Hetty, and I can't shake hands with you as if I held you my 
friend the same as ever, till you 've cleared that up better.” 

Arthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back 
his hand. He was silent for some moments, and then said, as 
indifferently as he could — 

44 1 don’t know what you mean by clearing up, Adam. I 've 
told you already that you think too seriously of a little flirta- 
tion. But if you are right in supposing there is any danger in 
it — I 'm going away on Saturday, and there will be an end of 


318 


ADAM BEDE. 


it. As for the pain it has given you, I ’m heartily sorry for it. 
I can say no more.” 

Adam said nothing, but rose from his chair, and stood with 
his face towards one of the windows, as if looking at the black- 
ness of the moonlit fir-trees ; but he was in reality conscious 
of nothing but the conflict within him. It was of no use now 
— his resolution not to speak till to-morrow : he must speak 
there and then. But it was several minutes before he turned 
round and stepped nearer to Arthur, standing and looking down 
on him as he lay. 

“ It ’ll be better for me to speak plain,” he said, with evident 
effort, “ though it ’s hard work. You see, sir, this is n’t a trifle 
to me, whatever it may be to you. I ’m none o’ them men as 
can go making love first to one woman and then t’ another, and 
don’t think it much odds which of ’em I take. What I feel 
for Hetty ’s a different sort o’ love, such as I believe nobody 
can know much about but them as feel it, and God as has given 
it to ’em. She ’s more nor everything else to me, all but my 
conscience and my good name. And if it ’s true what you ’ve 
been saying all along — and if it ’s only been trifling and flirt- 
ing as you call it, as ’ll be put an end to by your going away — 
why, then, I ’d wait, and hope her heart ’ud turn to me after 
all. I ’m loath to think you ’d speak false to me, and I ’ll 
believe your word, however things may look.” 

“ You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to believe 
it,” said Arthur, almost violently, starting up from the otto- 
man, and moving away. But he threw himself into a chair 
again directly, saying, more feebly, “ You seem to forget that, 
in suspecting me, you are casting imputations upon her.” 

“Nay, sir,” Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he were half 
relieved — for he was too straightforward to make a distinction 
between a direct falsehood and an indirect one — “ Nay, sir, 
things don’t lie level between Hetty and you. You’re acting 
with your eyes open, whatever you may do ; but how do you 
know what ’s been in her mind ? She ’s all but a child — as 
any man with a conscience in him ought to feel bound to take 
care on. And whatever you may think, I know you’ve dis- 
turbed her mind. I know she ’s been fixing her heart on you ; 


A DILEMMA. 


319 


for there ’s a many things clear to me now as I did n’t under- 
stand before. But you seem to make light o’ what she may 
feel — you don’t think o’ that.” 

“ Good God, Adam, let me alone ! ” Arthur burst out im® 
petuously ; “ I feel it enough without your worrying me.” 

He was aware of his indiscretion as soon as the words had 
escaped him. 

“ Well, then, if you feel it,” Adam rejoined, eagerly; “if 
you feel as you may ha’ put false notions into her mind, and 
made her believe as you loved her, when all the while you 
meant nothing, I ’ve this demand to make of you ; — I’m 
not speaking for myself, but for her. I ask you t’ undeceive 
her before you go away. Y’ are n’t going away forever ; and 
if you leave her behind with a notion in her head o’ your 
feeling about her the same as she feels about you, she ’ll be 
hankering after you, and the mischief may get worse. It may 
be a smart to her now, but it ’ll save her pain i’ th’ end. I ask 
you to write a letter — you may trust to my seeing as she 
gets it : tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself for 
behaving as you ’d no right to do to a young woman as is n’t 
your equal. I speak plain, sir ; but I can’t speak any other 
way. There ’s nobody can take care o’ Hetty in this thing 
but me.” 

“ I can do what I think needful in the matter,” said Arthur, 
more and more irritated by mingled distress and perplexity, 
“ without giving promises to you. I shall take what measures 
I think proper.” 

“No,” said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, “that won’t 
do. I must know what ground I ’m treading on. I must be 
safe as you ’ve put an end to what ought never to ha’ been 
begun. I don’t forget what ’s owing to you as a gentleman ; 
but in this thing we ’re man and man, and I can’t give up.” 

There was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur 
said, “ I ’ll see you to-morrow. I can bear no more now ; I ’m 
ill.” He rose as he spoke, and reached his cap, as if intending 
to go. 

“You won’t see her again ! ” Adam exclaimed, with a flash 
of recurring anger and suspicion, moving towards the door 


320 


ADAM BEDE. 


and placing his back against it. “ Either tell me she cat 
never be my wife — tell me you ’ve been lying — or else 
promise me what I ’ve said.” 

Adam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate 
before Arthur, who had moved forward a step or two, and 
now stopped, faint, shaken, sick in mind and body. It seemed 
long to both of them — that inward struggle of Arthur’s — 
before he said, feebly, ■“ I promise ; let me go.” 

Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but wne u 
Arthur reached the step, he stopped again and leaned against 
the door-post. 

“ You ’re not well enough to walk alone, sir,” said Adam. 
“ Take my arm again.” 

Arthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam 
following. But, after a few steps, he stood still again, and 
said, coldly, “ I believe I must trouble you. It ’s getting late 
now, and there may be an alarm set up about me at home.” 

Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a 
word, till they came where the basket and the tools lay. 

“ I must pick up the tools, sir,” Adam said. “ They ’re my 
brother’s. I doubt they ’ll be rusted. If you ’ll please to wait 
a minute.” 

Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other word 
passed between them till they were at the side entrance, 
where he hoped to get in without being seen by any one. He 
said then, “ Thank you ; I need n’t trouble you any further.” 

“ What time will it be conven’ent for me to see you to- 
morrow, sir ? ” said Adam. 

“ You may send me word that you ’re here at five o’clock,” 
said Arthur ; “ not before.” 

“ Good-night, sir,” said Adam. But he heard no reply ; 
Arthur had turned into the house; 


THE NEXT MORNING. 


32 . 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE NEXT MORNING. 

Arthur did not pass a sleepless night ; he slept long and 
well. For sleep comes to the perplexed — if the perplexed 
are only weary enough. But at seven he rang his bell and 
astonished Pym by declaring he was going to get up, and 
must have breakfast brought to him at eight. 

“ And see that my mare is saddled at half-past eight, and 
tell my grandfather when he ’s down that I ’m better this 
morning, and am gone for a ride.” 

He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. 
In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive : if a man can only 
get up, though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a 
present which offers some resistance to the past — sensations 
which assert themselves against tyrannous memories. And if 
there were such a thing as taking averages of feeling, it would 
certainly be found that in the hunting and shooting seasons 
regret, self-reproach, and mortified pride, weigh lighter on 
country gentlemen than in late spring and summer. Arthur 
felt that he should be more of a man on horseback. Even the 
presence of Pym, waiting on him with the usual deference, 
was a reassurance to him after the scenes of yesterday. For, 
with Arthur’s sensitiveness to opinion, the loss of Adam’s 
respect was a shock to his self-contentment which suffused his 
imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all eyes ; as a 
sudden shock of fear from some real - peril makes a nervous 
woman afraid even to step, because all her perceptions are 
suffused with a sense of danger. 

Arthur’s, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kind- 
ness were as easy to him as a bad habit : they were the com- 
mon issue of his weaknesses and good qualities, of his egoism 
and his sympathy. He did n’t like to witness pain, and he 
liked to have grateful eyes beaming on him as the giver of 
pleasure. When he was a lad of seven, he one day kicked 

*OL. i 


322 


ADAM BEDE. 


down an old gardener’s pitcher of broth, from no motive but 
a kicking impulse, not reflecting that it was the old man’s din- 
ner ; but on learning that sad fact, he took his favorite pencil- 
case and a silver-hafted knife out of his pocket and offered 
them as compensation. He had been the same Arthur ever 
since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits. If 
there were any bitterness in his nature, it could only show 
itself against the man who refused to be conciliated by him. 
And perhaps the time was come for some of that bitterness to 
rise. At the first moment, Arthur had felt pure distress and 
self-reproach at discovering that Adam’s happiness was in- 
volved in his relation to Hetty : if there had been a possibility 
of making Adam tenfold amends — if deeds of gift, or any 
other deeds, could have restored Adam’s contentment and re- 
gard for him as a benefactor, Arthur would not only have exe- 
cuted them without hesitation, but would have felt bound all 
the more closely to Adam, and would never have been weary of 
making retribution. But Adam could receive no amends ; his 
suffering could not be cancelled ; his respect and affection 
could not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement. 
He stood like an immovable obstacle against which no pres- 
sure could avail ; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank 
from believing in — the irrevocableness of his own wrong- 
doing. The words of scorn, the refusal to shake hands, the 
mastery asserted over him in their last conversation in the 
Hermitage — above all, the sense of having been knocked down, 
to which a man does not very well reconcile himself, even 
under the most heroic circumstances — pressed on him with ? 
galling pain which was stronger than compunction. Arthur 
would so gladly have persuaded himself that he had done no 
harm ! And if no one had told him the contrary, he could 
have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis can seldom 
forge a sword for herself out of our consciences — out of the 
suffering we feel in the suffering we may have caused : there 
is rarely metal enough there to make an effective weapon. 
Our moral sense learns the manners of good society, and smiles 
when others smile ; but when some rude person gives rough 
names to our actions, she is apt to ^take part against us. And 


THE NEXT MORNING. 323 

so it was with Arthur: Adam’s judgment of him, Adam’s 
grating words, disturbed his self-soothing arguments. 

Not that Arthur had been at ease before Adam’s discovery. 
Struggles and resolves had transformed themselves into com- 
punction and anxiety. He was distressed for Hetty’s sake, 
and distressed for his own, that he must leave her behind. He 
had always, both in making and breaking resolutions, looked 
beyond his passion, and seen that it must speedily end in sepa- 
ration ; but his nature was too ardent and tender for him not 
to suffer at this parting ; and on Hetty’s account he was filled 
with uneasiness. He had found out the dream in which she 
was living — that she was to be a lady in silks and satins ; and 
when he had first talked to her about his going away, she had 
asked him tremblingly to let her go with him and be married. 
It was his painful knowledge of this which had given the most 
exasperating sting to Adam’s , reproaches. He had said no 
word with the purpose of deceiving her, her vision was all 
spun by her own childish fancy ; but he was obliged to confess 
to himself that it was spun half out of his own actions. And 
to increase the mischief, on this last evening he had not dared 
to hint the truth to Hetty : he had been obliged to soothe her 
with tender, hopeful words, lest he should throw her into violent 
distress. He felt the situation acutely ; felt the sorrow of the 
dear thing in the present, and thought with a darker anxiety 
of the tenacity which her feelings might have in the future. 
That was the one sharp point which pressed against him ; every 
other he could evade by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole 
thing had been secret ; the Poysers had not the shadow of a 
suspicion. No one, except Adam, knew anything of what had 
passed — no one else was likely to know ; for Arthur had im- 
pressed on Hetty that it would be fatal to betray, by word or 
look, that there had been the least intimacy between them ; 
and Adam, who knew half their secret, would rather help them 
to keep it than betray it. It was an unfortunate business al- 
together, but there was no use in making it worse than it was, 
by imaginary exaggerations and forebodings of evil that might 
never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty was the worst 
consequence ; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any bad 


324 


ADAM BEDE. 


consequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But — but 
Hetty might have had the trouble in some other way if not in 
this. And perhaps hereafter he might be able to do a great deal 
for her, and make up to her for all the tears she would shed 
about him. She would owe the advantage of his care for her 
in future years to the sorrow she had incurred now. So good 
comes out of evil. Such is the beautiful arrangement of things I 

Are you inclined to ask whether this can be the same Arthur 
who, two months ago, had that freshness of feeling, that deli- 
cate honor which shrinks from wounding even a sentiment, 
and does not contemplate any more positive offence as possible 
for it ? — who thought that his own self-respect was a higher 
tribunal than any external opinion ? The same, I assure you, 
only under different conditions. Our deeds determine us, as 
much as we determine our deeds ; and until we know what 
has been or will be the peculiar combination of outward with 
inward facts, which constitutes a man’s critical actions, it will 
be better not to think ourselves wise about his character. 
There is a terrible coercion in our deeds which may first turn 
the honest man into a deceiver, and then reconcile him to thy 
change ; for this reason — that the second wrong presents itself 
to him in the guise of the only practicable right. The action 
which before commission has been seen with that blended com- 
mon-sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy 
eye of the soul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of apolo- 
getic ingenuity, through which all things that men call beautif uJ 
and ugly are seen to be made up of textures very much alike, 
Europe adjusts itself to a fait accompli, and so does an indi- 
vidual character, — until the placid adjustment is disturbed by 
a convulsive retribution. 

No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against 
his own sentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in 
Arthur because of that very need of self-respect which, while 
his conscience was still at ease, was one of his best safe- 
guards. Self-accusation was too painful to him — he could 
not face it. He must persuade himself that he had not been 
very much to blame ; he began even to pity himself for the 
necessity he was under of deceiving Adam : it was a course so 


THE NEXT MORNING. 325 

opposed to the honesty of his own nature. But then, it was 
the only right thing to do. 

Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable 
enough in consequence : miserable about Hetty : miserable 
about this letter that he had promised to write, and that 
seemed at one moment to be a gross barbarity, at another 
perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to her. And across 
all this reflection would dart every now and then a sudden 
impulse of passionate defiance towards all consequences : he 
would carry Hetty away, and all other considerations might 
go to . . . 

In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an 
intolerable prison to him ; they seemed to hem in and press 
down upon him all the crowd of contradictory thoughts and 
conflicting feelings, some of which would fly away in the open 
air. He had only an hour or two to make up his mind in, and 
he must get clear and calm. Once on Meg’s back, in the fresh 
air of that fine morning, he should be more master of the 
situation. 

The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, 
and pawed the gravel, and trembled with pleasure when her 
master stroked her nose, and patted her, and talked to her even 
in a more caressing tone than usual. He loved her the better 
because she knew nothing of his secrets. But Meg was quite 
as well acquainted with her master’s mental state as many 
others of her sex with the mental condition of the nice young 
gentlemen towards whom their hearts are in a state of flutter- 
ing expectation. 

Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was 
at the foot of a hill where there were no hedges or trees to 
hem in the road. Then he threw the bridle on Meg’s neck, 
and prepared to make up his mind. 

Hetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last 
before Arthur went away ; there was no possibility of their 
contriving another without exciting suspicion ; and she was 
like a frightened child, unable to think of anything, only able 
to cry at the mention of parting, and then put her face up to 
have the tears kissed away. He could do nothing but comfort 


326 


ADAM BEDE. 


her, and lull her into dreaming on. A letter would be a dread 
fully abrupt way of awakening her ! Yet there was truth in 
what Adam said — that it would save her from a lengthened 
delusion, which might be worse than a sharp immediate pain. 
And it was the only way of satisfying Adam, who must be 
satisfied, for more reasons than one. If he could have seen 
her again ! But that was impossible ; there was such a thorny 
hedge of hindrances between them, and an imprudence would 
be fatal. And yet, if he could see her again, what good would 
it do? Only cause him to suffer more from the sight of her 
distress and the remembrance of it. Away from him she was 
surrounded by all the motives to self-control. 

A sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imagina- 
tion — the dread lest she should do something violent in her 
grief ; and close upon that dread came another, which deep- 
ened the shadow. But he shook them off with the force of 
youth and hope. What was the ground for painting the 
future in that dark way? It was just as likely to be the re- 
verse. Arthur told himself, he did not deserve that things 
should turn out badly — he had never meant beforehand to do 
anything his conscience disapproved — he had been led on by 
circumstances. There was a sort of implicit confidence in 
him that he was really such a good fellow at bottom, Provi- 
dence would not treat him harshly. 

At all events, he could n’t help what would come now : all 
he could do was to take what seemed the best course at the 
present moment. And he persuaded himself that that course 
was to make the way open between Adam and Hetty. Her 
heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after a while ; 
and in that case there would have been no great harm done, 
since it was still Adam’s ardent wish to make her his wife. 
To be sure, Adam was deceived — deceived in a way that 
Arthur would have resented as a deep wrong if it had been 
practised on himself. That was a reflection that marred the 
consoling prospect. Arthur’s cheeks even burned in mingled 
shame and irritation at the thought. But what could a man 
do in such a dilemma ? He was bound in honor to say no 
word that could injure Hetty $ .his first duty was to guard her. 


THE NEXT MORNING. 


327 


He would never have told or acted a lie on his own account. 
Good God ! what a miserable fool he was to have brought 
himself into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a man had 
excuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are determined not 
by excuses but by actions !) 

Well, the letter must be written ; it was the only means 
that promised a solution of the difficulty. The tears came 
into Arthur’s eyes as he thought of Hetty reading it ; but it 
would be almost as hard for him to write it : he was not doing 
anything easy to himself; and this last thought helped him 
to arrive at a conclusion. He could never deliberately have 
taken a step which inflicted pain on another and left himself 
at ease. Even a movement of jealousy at the thought of 
giving up Hetty to Adam, went to convince him that he was 
making a sacrifice. 

When once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg 
round, and set off home again in a canter. The letter should 
be written the first thing, and the rest of the day would be* 
filled up with other business : he should have no time to look 
behind him. Happily Irwine and Gawaine were coming to 
dinner, and by twelve o’clock the next day he should have 
left the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in 
this constant occupation against an uncontrollable impulse 
seizing him to rush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some 
mad proposition that would undo everything. Easter and 
faster went the sensitive Meg, at every slight sign from her 
rider, till the canter had passed into a swift gallop. 

“I thought they said th’ young mester war took ill last 
night,” said sour old John, the groom, at dinner-time in the 
servants’ hall. “He ’s been ridin’ fit to split the mare i’ two 
this forenoon.” 

“That’s happen one o’ the symptims, John,” said the 
facetious coachman. 

“ Then I wish he war let blood for ’t, that ’s all,” said John, 
grimly. 

Adam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur was, 
and had been relieved from all anxiety about the effects of his 
blow by learning that he was gone out for a ride. At five 


328 


ADAM BEDE. 


o’clock he was punctually there again, and sent up word of his 
arrival. In a few minutes Pym came down with a letter in 
his hand, and gave it to Adam, saying that the Captain was 
too busy to see him, and had written everything he had to 
say. The letter was directed to Adam, but he went out of 
doors again before opening it. It contained a sealed enclosure 
lirected to Hetty. On the inside of the cover Adam read : 

“ In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I leave 
it to you to decide whether you will be doing best to deliver it to 
Hetty or to return it to me. Ask yourself once more whether you are 
not taking a measure which may pain her more than mere silence. 

“ There is no need of our seeing each other again now. We shall 
meet with better feelings some months hence. A. D.” 

“ Perhaps he’s i’ th’ right on ’t not to see me,” thought 
Adam. “ It ’s no use meeting to say more hard words, and 
it ’s no use meeting to shake hands and say we ’re friends 
* again. We ’re not friends, an’ it ’s better not to pretend it. 
I know forgiveness is a man’s duty, but, to my thinking, that 
can only mean as you ’re to give up all thoughts o’ taking 
revenge : it can never mean as you ’re t’ have your old feelings 
back again, for that ’s not possible. He ’s not the same man 
to me, and I can’t feel the same towards him. God help me ! 
I don’t know whether I feel the same towards anybody : I 
seem as if I ’d been measuring my work from a false line, and 
had got it all to measure over again.” 

But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon 
absorbed Adam’s thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief 
to himself by throwing the decision on Adam with a warning ; 
and Adam, who was not given to hesitation, hesitated here. 
He determined to feel his way — to ascertain as well as he 
could what was Hetty’s state of mind before he decided on 
delivering the letter. 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER. 


329 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER. 

The next Sunday Adam joined tlie Poysers on their wa\ 
out of church, hoping for an invitation to go home with them. 
He had the letter in his pocket, and was anxious to have an 
opportunity of talking to Hetty alone. He could not see her 
face at church, for she had changed her seat, and when he 
came up to her to shake hands, her manner was doubtful and 
constrained. He expected this, for it was the first time she 
had met him since she had been aware that he had seen her 
with Arthur in the Grove. 

“ Come, you ’ll go on with us, Adam,” Mr. Poyser said when 
they reached the turning ; and as soon as they were in the 
fields Adam ventured to offer his arm to Hetty. The children 
soon gave them an opportunity of lingering behind a little, 
and then Adam said — 

“ Will you contrive for me to walk out in the garden a bit 
with you this evening, if it keeps fine, Hetty ? I ’ve some- 
thing partic’lar to talk to you about.” 

Hetty said, “Very well.” She was really as anxious as 
Adam was that she should have some private talk with him : 
she wondered what he thought of her and Arthur : he must 
have seen them kissing, she knew, but she had no conception 
of the scene that had taken place between Arthur and Adam. 
Her first feeling had been that Adam would be very angry 
with her, and perhaps would tell her aunt and uncle ; but it 
never entered her mind that he would dare to say anything to 
Captain Donnithorne. It was a relief to her that he behaved 
so kindly to her to-day, and wanted to speak to her alone ; for 
she had trembled when she found he was going home with 
them lest he should mean “to tell.” But, now he wanted to 
talk to her by herself, she should learn what he thought, and 
what he meant to do. She felt a certain confidence that she 
could persuade him not to do anything she did not want him 


330 


ADAM BEDE. 


to do; she could perhaps even make him believe that she 
did n’t care for Arthur ; and as long as Adam thought there 
was any hope of her having him, he would do just what she 
liked, she knew. Besides, she must go on seeming to encour- 
age Adam, lest her uncle and aunt should be angry, and sus- 
pect her of having some secret lover. 

Hetty’s little brain was busy with this combination, as she 
hung on Adam’s arm, and said “ yes ” or “ no ” to some slight 
observations of his about the many hawthorn-berries there 
would be for the birds this next winter, and the low-hanging 
clouds that would hardly hold up till morning. And when 
they rejoined her aunt and uncle, she could pursue her thoughts 
without interruption, for Mr. Poyser held that though a young 
man might like to have the woman he was courting on his arm, 
he would nevertheless be glad of a little reasonable talk about 
business the while ; and, for his own part, he was curious to 
hear the most recent news about the Chase Farm. So, through 
the rest of the walk, he claimed Adam’s conversation for him- 
self ; and Hetty laid her small plots, and imagined her little 
scenes of cunning blandishment, as she walked along by the 
hedgerows on honest Adam’s arm, quite as well as if she had 
been an elegantly clad coquette alone in her boudoir. For if 
a country beauty in clumsy shoes be only shallow-hearted 
enough, it is astonishing how closely her mental processes 
may resemble those of a lady in society and crinoline, who 
applies her refined intellect to the problem of committing in- 
discretions without compromising herself. Perhaps the resem- 
blance was not much the less because Hetty felt very unhappy 
all the while. The parting with Arthur was a double pain to 
her; mingling with the tumult of passion and vanity, there 
was a dim undefined fear that the future might shape itself in 
some way quite unlike her dream. She clung to the comfort- 
ing hopeful words Arthur had uttered in their last meeting — 
“ I shall come again at Christmas, and then we will see what 
can be done.” She clung to the belief that he was so fond of 
her, he would never be happy without her ; and she still 
hugged her secret — that a great gentleman loved he* —with 
gratified pride, as a superiority over all the girls shp knew 


331 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER. 

But the uncertainty of the future, the possibilities to which 
she could give no shape, began to press upon her like the in- 
visible weight of air; she was alone on her little island of 
dreams, and all around her was the dark unknown water where 
Arthur was gone. She could gather no elation of spirits now 
by looking forward, but only by looking backward to build 
confidence on past words and caresses. But occasionally, 
since Thursday evening, her dim anxieties had been almost lost 
behind the more definite fear that Adam might betray what 
he knew to her uncle and aunt, and his sudden proposition to 
talk with her alone had set her thoughts to work in a new way. 
She was eager not to lose this evening’s opportunity ; and after 
tea, when the boys were going into the garden, and Totty 
begged to go with them, Hetty said, with an alacrity that sur- 
prised Mrs. Poyser — 

“ I ’ll go with her, aunt.” 

It did not seem at all surprising that Adam said he would 
go too ; and soon he and Hetty were left alone together on the 
walk by the filbert-trees, while the boys were busy elsewhere 
gathering the large unripe nuts to play at “ cob-nut ” with, and 
Totty was watching them with a puppy-like air of contempla- 
tion. It was but a short time — hardly two months — since 
Adam had had his mind filled with delicious hopes, as he 
stood by Hetty’s side in this garden. The remembrance of 
that scene had often been with him since Thursday evening : 
the sunlight through the apple-tree boughs, the red bunches, 
Hetty’s sweet blush. It came importunately now, on this sad 
evening, with the low-hanging clouds ; but he tried to suppress 
it, lest some emotion should impel him to say more than was 
needful for Hetty’s sake. 

“ After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty,” he began, 
a you won’t think me making too free in what I ’m going to 
say. If you was being courted by any man as ’ud make you 
his wife, and I ’d known you was fond of him, and meant to 
have him, I should have no right to speak a word to you about 
it ; but when I see you ’re being made love to by a gentleman 
as can never marry you, and doesna think o’ marrying you, I 
feel bound t’ interfere for you. I can’t speak about it to them 


332 


ADAM BEDE. 


as are i’ the place o’ your parents, for that might bring worse 
trouble than ’s needful.” 

Adam’s words relieved one of Hetty’s fears, but they also 
carried a meaning which sickened her with a strengthened 
foreboding. She was pale and trembling, and yet she would 
have angrily contradicted Adam, if she had dared to betray 
her feelings. But she was silent. 

“ You ’re so young, you know, Hetty,” he went on, almost 
tenderly, “ and y’ have n’t seen much o’ what goes on in the 
world. It ’s right for me to do what I can to save you from 
getting into trouble for want o’ your knowing where you ’re 
being led to. If anybody besides me knew what I know about 
your meeting a gentleman, and having fine presents from him, 
they’d speak light on you, and you’d lose your character. 
And besides that, you ’ll have to suffer in your feelings, wi’ 
giving your love to a man as can never marry you, so as he 
might take care of you all your life.” 

Adam paused, and looked at Hetty, who was plucking the 
leaves from the filbert-trees, and tearing them up in her hand. 
Her little plans and preconcerted speeches had all forsaken 
her, like an ill-learnt lesson, under the terrible agitation pro- 
duced by Adam’s words. There was a cruel force in their 
calm certainty which threatened to grapple and crush her flimsy 
hopes and fancies. She wanted to resist them — she wanted 
to throw them off with angry contradiction ; but the determi- 
nation to conceal what she felt still goverr.ed her. It was 
nothing more than a blind prompting now, for she was unable 
to calculate the effect of her words. 

“ You’ve no right to say as I love him,” she said, faintly, 
but impetuously, plucking another rough leaf and tearing it up. 
She was very beautiful in her paleness and agitation, with 
her dark childish eyes dilated, and her breath shorter than 
usual. Adam’s heart yearned over her as he looked at her. 
Ah, if he could but comfort her, and soothe her, and save her 
from this pain ; if he had but some sort of strength that would 
enable him to rescue her poor troubled mind, as he would have 
rescued her body in the face of all danger ! 

“ I doubt it must be so, Hetty,” he said, tenderly ; “ for I 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER. 


333 


canna believe you ’d let any man kiss you by yourselves, and 
give you a gold box with his hair, and go a-walking i’ the Grove 
to meet him, if you didna love him. I ’m not blaming you, for I 
know it ’ud begin by little and little, till at last you ’d not be 
able to throw it off. It ’s him I blame for stealing your love i’ 
that way, when he knew he could never make you the right 
amends. He ’s been trifling with you, and making a plaything 
of you, and caring nothing about you as a man ought to care.” 

“ Yes, he does care for me ; I know better nor you,” Hetty 
burst out. Everything was forgotten but the pain and anger 
she felt at Adam’s words. 

“Nay, Hetty,” said Adam, “if he’d cared for you rightly 
he’d never ha’ behaved so. He told me himself he meant 
nothing by his kissing and presents, and he wanted to make 
me believe as you thought light of ’em too. But I know bet- 
ter nor that. I can’t help thinking as you ’ve been trusting to 
his loving you well enough to marry you, for all he ’s a gentle- 
man. And that ’s why I must speak to you about it, Hetty, - — 
for fear you should be deceiving yourself. It ’s never entered 
his head the thought o’ marrying you.” 

“ How do you know ? How durst you say so ? ” said Hetty, 
pausing in her walk and trembling. The terrible decision of 
Adam’s tone shook her with fear. She had no presence of 
mind left for the reflection that Arthur would have his reasons 
for not telling the truth to Adam. Her words and look were 
enough to determine Adam ; he must give her the letter. 

“Perhaps you can’t believe me, Hetty; because you think 
too well of him — because you think he loves you better than 
he does. But I ’ve got a letter i’ my pocket, as he wrote him- 
self for me to give you. I ’ve not read the letter, but he 
says he ’s told you the truth in it. But before I give you the 
letter, consider, Hetty, and don’t let it take too much hold on 
you. It wouldna ha’ been good for you if he ’d wanted to do 
such a mad thing as marry you : it ’ud ha’ led to no happi- 
ness i’ th’ end.” 

Hetty said nothing ; she felt a revival of hope at the men- 
tion of a letter which Adam had not read. There would be 
something quite different in it from what he thought. 


334 


ADAM BEDE. 


Adam took out the letter, but he held it in his hand still, 
while he said, in a tone of tender entreaty — 

“ Don’t you bear me ill-will, Hetty, because I ’m the means 
o’ bringing you this pain. God knows I ’d ha’ borne a good 
deal worse for the sake o’ sparing it you. And think — there ’s 
nobody but me knows about this ; and I ’ll take care of you as 
if I was your brother. You ’re the same as ever to me, for I 
don’t believe you’ve done any wrong knowingly.” 

Hetty had laid her hand on the letter, but Adam did not 
loose it till he had done speaking. She took no notice of what 
he said — she had not listened ; but when he loosed the letter, 
she put it into her pocket, without opening it, and then began 
to walk more quickly, as if she wanted to go in. 

“ You ’re in the right not to read it just yet,” said Adam. 
“ Bead it when you ’re by yourself. But stay out a little bit 
longer, and let us call the children: you look so white and ill: 
your aunt may take notice of it.” 

Hetty heard the warning. It recalled to her the necessity 
of rallying her native powers of concealment, which had half 
given way under the shock of Adam’s words. And she had 
the letter in her -pocket : she was sure there was comfort in 
that letter in spite of Adam. She ran to find Totty, and soon 
reappeared with recovered color, leading Totty, who was mak- 
ing a sour face, because she had been obliged to throw away 
an unripe apple that she had set her small teeth in. 

11 Hegh, Totty,” said Adam, “ come and ride on my shoulder 
— ever so high — you ’ll touch the tops o’ the trees.” 

What little child ever refused to be comforted by that glorious 
sense of being seized strongly and swung upward ? I don’t 
believe Ganymede cried when the eagle carried him away, and 
perhaps deposited him on Jove’s shoulder at the end. Totty 
smiled down complacently from her secure height, and pleasant 
was the sight to the mother’s eyes, as she stood at the house 
door and saw Adam coming with his small burthen. 

“ Bless your sweet face, my pet,” she said, the mother’s 
strong love filling her keen eyes with mildness, as Totty 
leaned forward and put out her arms. She had no eyes for 
Hetty at that moment, and only said, without looking at her. 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER. 335 

“You go and draw some ale, Hetty: the gells are both at the 
cheese.” 

After the ale had been drawn and her uncle’s pipe lighted, 
there was Totty to be taken to bed, and brought down again 
in her night-gown, because she would cry instead of going to 
sleep. Then there was supper to be got ready, and Hetty 
must be continually in the way to give help. Adam stayed 
till he knew Mrs. Poyser expected him to go, engaging her 
and her husband in talk as constantly as he could, for the 
sake of leaving Hetty more at ease. He lingered, because he 
wanted to see her safely through that evening, and he was 
delighted to find how much self-command she showed. He 
knew she had not had time to read the letter, but he did not 
know she was buoyed up by a secret hope that the letter would 
contradict everything he had said. It was hard work for him 
to leave her — hard to think that he should not know for days 
how she was bearing her trouble. But he must go at last, and 
all he could do was to press her hand gently as he said, “ Good- 
by,” and hope she would take that as a sign that if his love 
could ever be a refuge for her, it was there the same as ever. 
How busy his thoughts were, as he walked home, in devising 
pitying excuses for her folly ; in referring all her weakness to 
the sweet lovingness of her nature ; in blaming Arthur, with 
less and less inclination to admit that his conduct might be 
extenuated too ! His exasperation at Hetty’s suffering — and 
also at the sense that she was possibly thrust forever out of 
his own reach — deafened him to any plea for the miscalled 
*riend who had wrought this misery. Adam was a clear- 
sighted, fair-minded man — a fine fellow, indeed, morally as 
well as physically. But if Aristides the J ust was ever in love 
and jealous, he was at that moment not perfectly magnani- 
mous. And I cannot pretend that Adam, in these painful 
days, felt nothing but righteous indignation and loving pity. 
He was bitterly jealous ; and in proportion as his love made 
him indulgent in his judgment of Hetty, the bitterness found 
a vent in his feeling towards Arthur. 

“ Her head was allays likely to be turned,” he thought, 
« when a gentleman, with his fine manners, and fine clothes, 


ADAM BEDE. 


33b 

and his white hands, and that way o’ talking gentlefolks have, 
came about her, making up to her in a bold way, as a man 
could n’t do that was only her equal ; and it ’s much if she ’ll 
ever like a common man now.” He could not help drawing 
his own hands out of his pocket, and looking at them — at 
the hard palms and the broken finger-nails. “ I ’m a roughish 
fellow, altogether : I don’t know, now I come to think on ’t, 
what there is much for a woman to like about me ; and yet I 
might ha’ got another wife easy enough, if I had n’t set my 
heart on her. But it’s little matter what other women think 
about me, if she can’t love me. She might ha’ loved me, per- 
haps, as likely as any other man — there ’s nobody hereabouts 
as I ’m afraid of, if he had n’t come between us ; but now I 
shall belike be hateful to her because I ’m so different to him. 
And yet there ’s no telling — she may turn round the other 
way, when she finds he ’s made light of her all the while. 
She may come to feel the vally of a man as ’ud be thankful to 
be bound to her all his life. But I must put up with it which- 
ever way it is — I ’ve only to be thankful it ’s been no worse : 
I am not th’ only man that ’s got to do without much happi- 
ness i’ this life. There ’s many a good bit o’ work done with 
a sad heart. It ’s God ’s will, and that ’s enough for us : we 
should n’t know better how things ought to be than he does, 
I reckon, if we was to spend our lives i’ puzzling. But it 'ud 
ha’ gone near to spoil my work for me, if I ’d seen her brought 
to sorrow and shame, and through the man as I ’ve always 
been proud to think on. Since I ’ve been spared that, I ’ve no 
right to grumble. When a man ’s got his limbs whole, he can 
bear a smart cut or two.” 

As Adam was getting over a stile at this point in his reflec* 
tions, he perceived a man walking along the field before him. 
He knew it was Seth, returning from an evening preaching, 
and made haste to overtake him. 

a I thought thee ’dst be at home before me,” he said, as Seth 
turned round to wait for him, “ for I ’m later than usual to- 
night.” 

“ Well, I ’m later too, for I got into talk, after meeting, with 
John Barnes, who has lately professed himself in a state of 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER. 337 

perfection, and I’d a question to ask him about his experience. 
It ’s one o’ them subjects that lead you further than y’ expect 
— they don't lie along the straight road.” 

They walked along together in silence two or three minutes. 
Adam was not inclined to enter into the subtleties of religious 
experience, but he was inclined to interchange a word or two 
of brotherly affection and confidence with Seth. That was a 
rare impulse in him, much as the brothers loved each other. 
They hardly ever spoke of personal matters, or uttered more 
than an allusion to their family troubles. Adam was by 
nature reserved in all matters of feeling, and Seth felt a cer- 
tain timidity towards his more practical brother. 

“ Seth, lad,” Adam said, putting his arm on his brother’s 
shoulder, “ hast heard anything from Dinah Morris since she 
went away ? ” 

“Yes,” said Seth. “ She told me I might write her word 
after a while, how we went on, and how mother bore up under 
her trouble. So I wrote to her a fortnight ago, and told her 
about thee having a new employment, and how mother was 
more contented ; and last Wednesday, when I called at the 
post at Treddles’on, I found a letter from her. I think thee ’dst 
perhaps like to read it ; but I didna say anything about it, be- 
cause thee’st seemed so full of other things. It’s quite easy 
t’ read — she writes wonderful for a woman.” 

Seth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out 
to Adam, who said, as he took it — 

“ Ay, lad, I ’ve got a tough load to carry just now — thee 
mustna take it ill if I ’m a bit silenter and crustier nor usual. 
Trouble doesna make me care the less for thee. I know we 
shall stick together to the last.” 

“ I take nought ill o’ thee, Adam : I know well enough what 
it means if thee ’t a bit short wi’ me now and then.” 

“ There ’s mother opening the door to look out for us,” said 
Adam, as they mounted the slope. “ She ’s been sitting i’ the 
dark as usual. Well, Gyp, well ! art glad to see me ? ” 

Lisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she 
had heard the welcome rustling of footsteps on the grass, 
before Gyp’s joyful bark. 


VOL. I. 


338 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Eh, my lads ! th’ hours war ne’er so long sin’ I war born 
as they ’n been this blessed Sunday night. What can ye both 
ha’ been doin’ till this time ? ” 

“Thee shouldstna sit i’ the dark, mother,” said Adam ; “that 
makes the time seem longer.” 

“Eh, what am I to do wi’ burnin’ candle of a Sunday, when 
there ’s on’y me, an’ it ’s sin to do a bit o’ knittin’ ? The day- 
light ’s long enough for me to stare i’ the booke as I canna 
read. It ’ud be a fine way o’ shortenin’ the time, to make it 
waste the good candle. But which on you ’s for ha’in’ supper ? 
Ye mun ayther be clemmed or full, I should think, seem’ what 
time o’ night it is.” 

“I ’m hungry, mother,” said Seth, seating himself at the 
little table, which had been spread ever since it was light. 

“ I ’ve had my supper,” said Adam. “ Here, Gyp,” he added, 
taking some cold potato from the table, and rubbing the rough 
gray head that looked up towards him. 

“ Thee needstna be gi’in’ th’ dog,” said Lisbeth : “ I ’n fed him 
well a’ready. I ’m not like to forget him, I reckon, when he ’s 
all o’ thee I can get sight on.” 

“ Come, then, Gyp,” said Adam, “ we ’ll go to bed. Good 
night, mother ; I’m very tired.” 

“What ails him, dost know?” Lisbeth said to Seth, 
when Adam was gone up-stairs. “ He ’s like as if he was 
struck for death this day or two — he ’s so cast down. I 
found him i’ the shop this forenoon, arter thee wast gone, 
a-sittin’ an’ doin’ nothin’ — not so much as a booke afore 
him.” 

“He ’s a deal o’ work upon him just now, mother,” said 
Seth, “and I think he ’s a bit troubled in his mind. Don’t 
you take notice of it, because it hurts him when you do. Be 
as kind to him as you can, mother, and don’t say anything to 
vex him.” 

“ Eh, what dost talk o’ my vexin’ him ? an’ what am I like 
to be but kind? I’ll ma’ him a kettle-cake for breakfast i’ 
the mornin’.” 

Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah’s letter by the light 
pf his dip candle. 


THE DELIVERY OF THE LETTER. 


339 


“ Dear Brother Seth, — Your letter lay three days beyond my 
knowing of it at the Post, for I had not money enough by me to pay the 
carriage, this being a time of great need and sickness here, with the 
rains that have fallen, as if the windows of heaven were opened again ; 
and to lay by money, from day to day, in such a time, when there are so 
many in present need of all things, would be a want of trust like the 
laying up of the manna. I speak of this, because I would not have 
you think me slow to answer, or that I had small joy in your rejoicing 
at the worldly good that has befallen your brother Adam. The honor 
and love you bear him is nothing but meet, for God has given him 
great gifts, and he uses them as the patriarch Joseph did, who, when 
he was exalted to a place of power and trust, yet yearned with tender- 
ness towards his parent and his younger brother. 

“My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted me to 
be near her in the day of trouble. Speak to her of me, and tell her 
I often bear her in my thoughts at evening time, when I am sitting in 
the dim light as I did with her, and we held one another’s hands, and 
I spoke the words of comfort that were given to me. Ah, that is a 
blessed time, is n’t it, Seth, when the outward light is fading, and the 
body is a little wearied with its work and its labor. Then the inward 
light shi’-res the brighter, and we have a deeper sense of resting on the 
Divine strength. I sit on my chair in the dark room and close my 
eyes, and it is as if I was out of the body and could feel no want for- 
evermore. For then, the very hardship, and the sorrow, and the 
blindness, and the sin, I have beheld and been ready to weep over, — » 
yea, all the anguish of the children of men, which sometimes wraps 
me round like sudden darkness — I can bear with a willing pain, as if 
I was sharing the Redeemer’s cross. For I feel it, I feel it — infinite 
love is suffering too — yea, in the fulness of knowledge it suffers, it 
yearns, it mourns ; and that is a blind self-seeking which wants to 
be freed from the sorrow wherewith the whole creation groaiieth ar.d 
travaileth. Surely it is not true blessedness to be free from sorrow, 
while there is sorrow and sin in the world: sorrow is then a part of 
love, and love does not seek to throw it off. It is not the spirit only 
that tells me this — I see it in the whole work and word of the gospel. 
Is there not pleading in heaven? Is not the Man of Sorrows there in 
that crucified body wherewith he ascended ? And is he not one with 
the Infinite Love itself — as our love is one with our sorrow? 

“ These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, and I 
have seen with new clearness the meaning of those words, * If any 
man love me, let him take up my cross.’ I have heard this enlarged 
on as if it meant the troubles and persecutions we bring on ourselves 
by confessing Jesus. But s.urei* tnat* hi a narrow thought. The true 


340 


ADAM BEDE. 


cross of the Redeemer was the sin and sorrow of this world — that was 
what lay heavy on his heart — and that is the cross we shall share with 
him, that is the cup we must drink of with him, if we would have any 
part in that Divine Love which is one with his sorrow. 

“ In my outward lot, which you ask about, I have all things and 
abound. I have had constant work in the mill, though some of the 
other hands have been turned off for a time ; and my body is greatly 
strengthened, so that I feel little weariness after long walking and 
speaking. What you say about staying in your own country with 
your mother and brother shows me that you have a true guidance: 
your lot is appointed there by a clear showing, and to seek a greater 
blessing elsewhere would be like laying a false offering on the altar 
and expecting the fire from heaven to kindle it. My work and my 
joy are here among the hills, and I sometimes think I cling too 
much to my life among the people here, and should be rebellious if I 
was called away. 

“ I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at the Hall 
Farm; for though I sent them a letter, by my aunt’s desire, after I 
came back from my sojourn among them, I have had no word from 
them. My aunt has not the pen of a ready writer, and the work of 
the house is sufficient for the day, for she is weak in body. My heart 
cleaves to her and her children as the nearest of all to me in the flesh ; 
yea, and to all in that house. I am carried away to them continually 
in my sleep, and often in the midst of work, and even of speech, the 
thought of them is borne in on me as if they were in need and trouble, 
which yet is dark to me. There maybe some leading here; but I wait 
to be taught. You say they are all well. 

“ We shall see each other again in the body, I trust, — though, it 
may be, not for a long while; for the brethren and sisters at Leeds are 
desirous to have me for a short space among them, when I have a door 
opened me again to leave Snowfield. 

“ Farewell, dear brother — and yet not farewell. For those children 
of God whom it has been granted to see each other face to face and to 
hold communion together and to feel the same spirit working in both, 
can nevermore be sundered, though the hills may lie between. For 
their souls are enlarged forevermore by that union, and they bear one 
another about in their thoughts continually as it were a new strength. 

“ Your faithful Sister and fellow-worker in Christ, 

“ Dinah Morris. >f 

“ I have not skill to write the words so small as you do, and my pen 
moves slow. And so 1 am straitened, and say but little of what is in 
my mind. Greet your mother for me with a kiss. She asked me to 
kiss her twice when we 


the delivery of the letter. 


341 


Adam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively 
with his head resting on his arm at the head of the bed, when 
Seth came up-stairs. 

“ Hast read the letter ? ” said Seth. 

“ Yes,” said Adam. “ I don’t know what I should ha’ 
thought of her and her letter if I ’d never seen her : I dare say 
I should ha’ thought a preaching woman hateful. But she ’s 
one as makes everything seem right she says and does, and I 
seemed to see her and hear her speaking when I read the let- 
ter. It ’s wonderful how I remember her looks and her voice. 
She ’d make thee rare and happy, Seth ; she ’s just the woman 
for thee.” 

“ It ? s no use thinking o’ that,” said Seth, despondmgly. 
“ She spoke so firm, and she ’s not the woman to say one thing 
and mean another.” 

“Hay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may 
get to love by degrees — the best fire doesna flare up the soon- 
est. I ’d have thee go and see her by-and-by : I ’d make it 
convenient for thee to be away three or four days, and it 
’ud be no walk for thee — only between twenty and thirty 
mile.” 

“ I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she wouldna 
be displeased with me for going,” said Seth. 

“ She ’ll be none displeased,” said Adam, emphatically, get- 
ting up and throwing off his coat. “ It might be a great hap- 
piness to us all, if she ’d have thee, for mother took to her so 
ironderful, and seemed so contented to be with her.” 

“ Ay,” said Seth, rather timidly, “and Dinah ’s fond o’ Hetty 
.,00 ; she thinks a deal about her.” 

Adam made no reply to that, and no ^ther word but “ gooff 
nir ht ” passed between them. 


B42 


ADAM BEDE. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

in hetty’s bed-chamber. 

It was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle 
even in Mrs. Poyser’s early household, and Hetty carried one 
with her as she went up at last to her bedroom soon after 
Adam was gone, and bolted the door behind her. 

Now she would read her letter. It must — it must have 
comfort in it. How was Adam to know the truth ? It was 
always likely he should say what he did say. 

She set down the candle, and took out the letter. It had a 
faint scent of roses, which made her feel as if Arthur were 
close to her. She put it to her lips, and a rush of remembered 
sensations for a moment or two swept away all fear. But her 
heart began to flutter strangely, and her hands to tremble as 
she broke the seal. She read slowly ; it was not easy for her 
to read a gentleman’s handwriting, though Arthur had taken 
pains to write plainly. 

“ Dearest Hetty, — I have spoken truly when I have said that I 
loved you, and I shall never forget our love. I shall be your true 
friend as long as life lasts, and I hope to prove this to you in many 
ways. If I say anything to pain you in this letter, do not believe it is 
for want of love and tenderness towards you, for there is nothing T 
would not do for you, if I knew it to be really for your happiness. T 
cannot bear to think of my little Hetty shedding tears when I am not 
there to kiss them away ; and if I followed only my own inclinations, 
I should be with her at this moment instead of writing. It is very 
hard for me to part from her — harder still for me to write words 
which may seem unkind, though they spring from the truest kind- 
ness. 

“ Dear, dear Hetty, sweet as our love has been to me, sweet as it 
would be to me for you to love me always, I feel that it would have 
been better for us both if we had never had that happiness, and that 
it is my duty to ask you to love me and care for me as little as you 
can. The fault has all been mine, for though I have been unable to 
resist the longing to be near you, I have felt all the while that your 


IN HETTY’S BED-CHAMBER. 


343 


affection for me might cause you grief. I ought to have resisted my 
feelings. I should have done so, if I had been a better fellow than I 
am; but now, since the past cannot be altered, I am bound to save you 
from any evil that I have power to prevent. And I feel it would be a 
great evil for you if your affections continued so fixed on me that you 
sould think of no other man who might be able to make you happier 
by his love than I ever can, and if you continued to look towards some- 
thing in the future which cannot possibly happen. For, dear Hetty, 
if I were to do what you one day spoke of, and make you my wife, I 
should do what you yourself would come to feel was for your misery 
instead of your welfare. I know you can never be happy except by 
marrying a man in your own station ; and if I were to marry you now r , 
I should only be adding to any wrong I have done, besides offending 
against my duty in the other relations of life. You know nothing, 
dear Hetty, of the world in which I must always live, and you would 
soon begin to dislike me, because there would be so little in which we 
should be alike. 

“ And since I cannot marry you, we must part — we must try not 
to feel like lovers any more. I am miserable while I say this, but 
nothing else can be. Be angry with me, my sweet one, I deserve it; 
but do not believe that I shall not always care for you — always be 
grateful to you — always remember my Hetty ; and if any trouble 
should come that we do not now foresee, trust in me to do everything 
that lies in my power. 

“ I have told you where you are to direct a letter to, if you want to 
write, but I put it down below lest you should have forgotten. Do 
not write unless there is something I can really do for you ; for, dear 
Hetty, we must try to think of each other as little as we can. For- 
give me, and try to forget everything about me, except that I shall be, 
as long as I live, your affectionate friend, 

“ Arthur Donnithorne.” 

Slowly Hetty had read this letter ; and when she looked up 
from it there was the reflection of a blanched face in the old 
dim glass — a white marble face with rounded childish forms, 
but with something sadder than a child’s pain in it. Hetty 
did not see the face — she saw nothing — she only felt that 
she was cold and sick and trembling. The letter shook and 
rustled in her hand. She laid it down. It was a horrible 
sensation — this cold and trembling: it swept away the very 
ideas that produced it, and Hetty got up to reach a warm cloak 


ADAM BEDE. 


344 

from her clothes-press, wrapped it round her, and sat as if she 
were thinking of nothing but getting warm. Presently she 
took up the letter with a firmer hand, and began to read it 
through again. The tears came this time — great rushing 
tears, that blinded her and blotched the paper. She felt noth- 
ing but that Arthur was cruel — cruel to write so, cruel not to 
marry her. Reasons why he could not marry her had no exist- 
ence for her mind; how could she believe in any misery that 
could come to her from the fulfilment of all she had been long- 
ing for and dreaming of ? She had not the ideas that could 
make up the notion of that misery. 

As she threw down the letter again, she caught sight of her 
face in the glass ; it was reddened now, and wet with tears •, 
it was almost like a companion that she might complain to 
that would pity her. She leaned forward on her elbows, and 
looked into those dark overflooding eyes, and at that quiver- 
ing mouth, and saw how the tears came thicker and thicker, 
and how the mouth became convulsed with sobs. 

The shattering of all her little dream-world, the crushing 
blow on her new-born passion, afflicted her pleasure-craving 
nature with an overpowering pain that annihilated all impulse 
to resistance, and suspended her anger. She sat sobbing till 
the candle went out, and then, wearied, aching, stupefied with 
crying, threw herself on the bed without undressing, and went 
to sleep. 

There was a feeble dawn in the room when Hetty awoke, a 
little after four o’clock, with a sense of dull misery, the cause 
of which broke upon her gradually, as she began to discern 
the objects round her in the dim light. And then came the 
frightening thought that she had to conceal her misery, as 
well as to bear it, in this dreary daylight that was coming. 
She could lie no longer : she got up and went towards the 
table : there lay the letter ; she opened her treasure-drawer : 
there lay the earrings and the locket — the signs of all her 
short happiness — the signs of the life-long dreariness that 
was to follow it. Looking at the little trinkets which she had 
once eyed and fingered so fondly as the earnest of her future 
paradise of finer v- she lived back in the moments when they 


IN HETTY’S BED-CHAMBER. 


345 


iiad ueen given to lier with such tender caresses, such strangely 
pretty words, such glowing looks, which filled her with a be- 
wildering delicious surprise — they were so much sweeter than 
she had thought anything could be. And the Arthur who had 
spoken to her and looked at her in this way, who was pres- 
ent with her now — whose arm she felt round her, his cheek 
against hers, his very breath upon her — was the cruel, cruel 
Arthur who had written that letter : — that letter which she 
snatched- and crushed and then opened again, that she might 
read it once more. The half-benumbed mental condition 
which was the effect of the last night’s violent crying, made 
it necessary to her to look again and see if her wretched 
thoughts were actually true — if the letter was really so cruel. 
She had to hold it close to the window, else she could not 
have read it by the faint light. Yes ! it was worse — it was 
more cruel. She crushed it up again in anger. She hated 
the writer of that letter — hated him for the very reason that 
she hung upon him with all her love — all the girlish passion 
and vanity that made up her love. 

She had no tears this morning. She had wept them all 
away last night, and now she felt that dry-eyed morning 
misery, which is worse than the first shock, because it has 
the future in it as well as the present. Every morning to 
come, as far as her imagination could stretch, she would have 
to get up and feel that the day would have no joy for her. 
For there is no despair so absolute as that which comes with 
the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not 
yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have 
despaired and to have recovered hope. As Hetty began lan- 
guidly to take off the clothes she had worn all the night, that 
she might wash herself and brush her hair, she had a sicken- 
ing sense that her life would go on in this way : she should 
ad ways be doing things she had no pleasure in, getting up to 
the old tasks of work, seeing people she cared nothing about, 
going to church, and to Treddleston, and to tea with Mrs. 
Best, and carrying no bappv thought with her. For her short 
poisonous delights had spoiled forever all the little joys that 
had once made the sweetness of her life — the new frock 


346 


ADAM BEDE. 


ready for Treddleston fair, the party at Mr. Britton’s at Brox 
ton wake, the beaux that she would say “ No ” to for a long 
while, and the prospect of the wedding that was to come at 
last when she would have a silk gown and a great many clothes 
all at once. These things were all flat and dreary to her now : 
everything would be a weariness : and she would carry about 
forever a hopeless thirst and longing. 

She paused in the midst of her languid undressing, and 
leaned against the dark old clothes-press. Her neck and arms 
were bare, her hair hung down in delicate rings; and they 
were just as beautiful as they were that night two months 
ago, when she walked up and down this bed-chamber glowing 
with vanity and hope. She was not thinking of her neck and 
arms now ; even her own beauty was indifferent to her. Her 
eyes wandered sadly over the dull old chamber, and then 
looked out vacantly towards the growing dawn. Did a remem- 
brance of Dinah come across her mind ? — of her foreboding 
words, which had made her angry ? — of Dinah’s affectionate 
entreaty to think of her as a friend in trouble ? Ho, the im- 
pression had been too slight to recur. Any affection or comfort 
Dinah could have given her would have been as indifferent to 
Hetty this morning as everything else was except her bruised 
passion. She was only thinking she could never stay here 
and go on with the old life ■ — she could better bear something 
quite new than sinking back into the old every-day round. She 
would like to run away that very morning, and never see any 
of the old faces again. But Hetty’s was not a nature to face 
difficulties — to dare to loose her hold on the familiar, and 
rush blindly on some unknown condition. Hers was a luxu- 
rious and vain nature, not a passionate one; and if she were 
ever to take any violent measure, she must be urged to it by 
the desperation of terror. There was not much room for her 
thoughts to travel in the narrow circle of her imagination, and 
she soon fixed on the one thing she would do to get away from 
her old life : she would ask her uncle to let her go to be a 
lady’s-maid. Miss Lydia’s maid would help her to get a 
situation, if she knew Hetty had her uncle’s leave. 

When she had thought of this, she fastened up her hair and 


IN HETTY’S BED-CHAMBER. 


347 


Oegan to wash : it seemed more possible to her to go down- 
stairs and try to behave as usual. She would ask her uncle 
this very day. On Hetty’s blooming health it would take a 
great deal of such mental suffering as hers to leave any deep 
impress ; and when she was dressed as neatly as usual in her 
working-dress, with her hair tucked up under her little cap, 
an indifferent observer would have been more struck with the 
young roundness of her cheek and neck, and the darkness of 
her eyes and eyelashes, than with any signs of sadness about 
her. But when she took up the crushed letter and put it in 
her drawer, that she might lock it out of sight, hard smarting 
tears, having no relief in them as the great drops had that fell 
last night, forced their way into her eyes. She wiped them 
away quickly : she must not cry in the day-time : nobody 
should find # out how miserable she was, nobody should know 
she was disappointed about anything; and the thought that 
the eyes of her aunt and uncle would be upon her, gave her 
the self-command which often accompanies a great dread. For 
Hetty looked out from her secret misery towards the possi- 
bility of their ever knowing what had happened, as the sick 
and weary prisoner might think of the possible pillory. They 
would think her conduct shameful; and shame was torture. 
That was poor little Hetty’s conscience. 

So she locked up her drawer and went away to her early 
work. 

In the evening, when Mr. Poyser was smoking his pipe, and 
his good-nature was therefore at its superlative moment, Hetty 
seized the opportunity of her aunt’s absence to say — 

“ Uncle, I wish you ’d let me go for a lady’s-maid.” 

Mr. Poyser took the pipe from his mouth, and looked at 
Hetty in mild surprise for some moments. She was sewing, 
and went on with her work industriously. 

“ Why, what ’s put that into your head, my wench ? ” he 
said at last, after he had given one conservative puff. 

“ I should like it — I should like it better than farm-work.” 

“Nay, nay; you fancy so because you donna know it, my 
wench. It would n’t be half so good for your health, nor for 
your luck i’ life. I ’d like you to stay wi’ us till you ’ve got 


348 


ADAM BEDE. 


a good husband: you’re my own niece, and I wouldn’t have 
you go to service, though it was a gentleman’s house, as long 
as I ’ve got a home for you.” 

Mr. Poyser paused, and puffed away at his pipe. 

“I like the needlework,” said Hetty, “ and I should get good 
wages.” 

“ Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi’ you ? ” said Mr. Poyser, 
not noticing Hetty’s further argument. “ You mustna mind 
that, my wench — she does it for your good. She wishes you 
well ; an’ there is n’t many aunts as are no kin to you ’ud ha’ 
done by you as she has.” 

“No, it isn’t my aunt,” said Hetty, “but I should like the 
work better.” 

“ It was all very well for you to learn the work a bit — an’ 
I gev my consent to that fast enough, sin’ Mrs. Ppmfret was 
willing to teach you. For if anything was t’ happen, it ’s well 
to know how to turn your hand to different sorts o’ things. 
But I niver meant you to go to service, my wench ; my family ’s 
ate their own bread and cheese as fur back as anybody knows, 
hanna they, father ? You wouldna like your grandchild to 
take wage ? ” 

“ Na-a-y,” said old Martin, with an elongation of the word, 
meant to make it bitter as well as negative, while he leaned 
forward and looked down on the floor. “ But the wench takes 
arter her mother. I ’d hard work t’ hould her in, an’ she mar- 
ried i’ spite o’ me — a feller wi’ on’y two head o’ stock when 
there should ha’ been ten on ’s farm — she might well die o' 
th’ inflammation afore she war thirty.” 

It was seldom the old man made so long a speech ; but his 
son’s question had fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the embers 
of a long unextinguished resentment, which had always made 
the grandfather more indifferent to Hetty than to his son’s 
children. Her mother’s fortune had been spent by that good- 
for-nought Sorrel, and Hetty had Sorrel’s blood in her veins. 

“ Poor thing, poor thing ! ” said Martin the younger, w T ho 
was sorry to have provoked this retrospective harshness. 
“ She ’d but bad luck. But Hetty ’s got as good a chanche o' 
getting a solid, sober husband as any gell i’ this country.” 


349 


IN HETTY’S BED-CHAMBER. 

After throwing out this pregnant hint, Mr. Poyser recurred 
to his pipe and his silence, looking at Hetty to see if she did 
not give some sign of having renounced her ill-advised wish. 
But instead of that, Hetty, in spite of herself, began to cry, 
Half out of ill-temper at the denial, half out of the day’s 
repressed sadness. 

“ Hegh, hegh!” said Mr. Poyser, meaning to check her 
>lay fully, “ don’t let ’s have any crying. Crying’s for them 
as ha’ got no home, not for them as want to get rid o’ one. 
W hat dost think ? ” he continued to his wife, who now came 
back into the house-place, knitting with fierce rapidity, as if 
that movement were a necessary function, like the twittering 
of a crab’s antennae. 

“ Think ? — why, I think we shall have the fowl stole 
before we are much older, wi’ that gell forgetting to lock the 
pens up o’ nights. What ’s the matter now, Hetty ? What 
are you crying at ? ” 

“ Why, she ’s been wanting to go for a lady’s-maid,” said 
Mr. Poyser. “ I tell her we can do better for her nor that.” 

“ I thought she ’d got some maggot in her head, she ’s gone 
about wi’ her mouth buttoned up so all day. It’s all wi’ 
vS oing so among them servants at the Chase, as we war fools 
for letting her. She thinks it ’ud be a finer life than being 
wi’ them as are akin to her, and ha’ brought her up sin’ she 
war no bigger nor Marty. She thinks there ’s nothing be- 
longs to being a lady’s-maid but wearing finer clothes nor she 
was born to, I ’ll be bound. It ’s what rag she can get to 
stick on her as she ’s thinking on from morning till night ; as 
1 often ask her if she would n’t like to be the mawkin i’ the 
field, for then she ’d be made o’ rags inside and out. 1 ’l 
never gi’ my consent to her going for a lady’s-maid, while 
she ’s got good friends to take care on her till she ’s married 
to somebody better nor one o’ them valets, as is neither a 
common man nor a gentleman, an’ must live on the fat o’ the 
land, an ’s like enough to stick his hands under his coat tails 
and expect his wife to work for him.” 

" Ay, ay,” said Mr. Poyser, “ we must have a better hus- 
band for her nor that, and there ’s better at hand. Come, my 


850 


ADAM BEDE. 


wench, give over crying, and get to bed. I ’ll do better foi 
you nor letting you go for a lady’s-maid. Let ’s hear no more 
on ’t.” 

When Hetty was gone up-stairs he said — - 

“ I canna make it out as she should want to go away, for 
I thought she ’d got a mind t’ Adam Bede. She ’s looked like 
it o’ late.” 

“ Eh, there ’s no knowing what she ’s got a liking to, for 
things take no more hold on her than if she was a dried pea. 
I believe that gell, Molly — as is aggravatin’ enough, for the 
matter o’ that — but I believe she ’d care more about leaving 
ns and the children, for all she ’s been here but a year come 
Michaelmas, nor Hetty would. But she ’s got this notion o’ 
being a lady’s-maid wi’ going among them servants — we 
might ha’ known what it ’ud lead to when we let her go to 
learn the fine work. But I ’ll put a stop to it pretty quick.” 

" Thee ’dst be sorry to part wi’ her, if it was n’t for her 
good,” said Mr. Poyser. “ She ’s useful to thee i’ the work.” 

“ Sorry ? yes; I’m fonder on her nor she deserves — a 
little hard-hearted hussy, wanting to leave us i’ that way. 
I can’t ha’ had her about me these seven year, I reckon, and 
done for her, and taught her everything, wi’out caring about 
her. An’ here I ’m having linen spun, an’ thinking all the 
while it ’ll make sheeting and table-clothing for her when 
she ’s married, an’ she ’ll live i’ the parish wi’ us, and never 
go out of our sights — like a fool as I am for thinking aught 
about her, as is no better nor a cherry wi’ a hard stone in- 
side it.” 

“ Hay, nay, thee mustna make much of a trifle,” said Mr. 
Poyser, soothingly. “ She ’s fond on us, I ’ll be bound ; but 
she ’s young, an’ gets things in her head as she can’t rightly 
give account on. Them young fillies ’ull run away often 
wi’out knowing why.” 

Her uncle’s answers, however, had had another effect on 
Hetty besides that of disappointing her and making her cry. 
She knew quite well whom he had in his mind in his allusions 
to marriage, and to a sober, solid husband ; and when she was 
in her bedroom again, the possibility of her marrying Adam 


IN HETTY’S BED-CHAMBER. 


351 


presented itself to her in a new light. In a mind where no 
strong sympathies are at work, where there is no supreme 
sense of right to which the agitated nature can cling and 
steady itself to quiet endurance, one of the first results of 
sorrow is a desperate vague clutching after any deed that will 
change the actual condition. Poor Hetty’s vision of conse- 
quences, at no time more than a narrow fantastic calculation 
of her own probable pleasures and pains, was now quite shut 
out by reckless irritation under present suffering, and she was 
ready for one of those convulsive, motiveless actions by which 
Avretched men and women leap from a temporary sorrow into 
a life-long misery. 

Why should she not marry Adam ? She did not care what 
she did, so that it made some change in her life. She felt 
confident that he would still want to marry her, and any 
further thought about Adam’s happiness in the matter had 
never yet visited her. 

“ Strange ! ” perhaps you will say, “ this rush of impulse 
towards a course that might have seemed the most repugnant 
to her present state of mind, and in only the second night of 
her sadness ! ” 

Yes, the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty’s, struggling 
amidst the serious, sad destinies of a human being, are strange. 
So are the motions of a little vessel without ballast tossed about 
on a stormy sea. How pretty it looked with its parti-colored 
sail in the sunlight, moored in the quiet bay 1 

“ Let that man bear the loss who loosed it from its moor- 
ings.” 

But that will not save the vessel — the pretty thing that 
might have been a lasting joy. 


352 


ADAM BEDE. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

MRS. POYSER “HAS HER SAY OUT.” 

The next Saturday evening there was much excited discus- 
sion at the Donnithorne Arms concerning an incident which 
had occurred that very day - — no less than a second appearance 
of the smart man in top-boots, said by some to be a mere 
farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm, by others to be the future 
steward; hut by Mr. Casson himself, the personal witness to 
the stranger's visit, pronounced contemptuously to be nothing 
better than a bailiff, such as Satchell had been before him. 
No one had thought of denying Mr. Casson's testimony to the 
fact that he had seen the stranger, nevertheless he proferred 
various corroborating circumstances. 

44 I see him myself,” he said; “I see him coming along by 
the Crab- tree meadow on a bald-faced hoss. I 'd just been t’ 
hev a pint — it was half after ten i' the forenoon, when I hev 
my pint as reg'lar as the clock — and I says to Knowles, as 
druv up with his wagon, 4 You 'll get a bit o’ barley to-day, 
Knowles,' I says, 4 if you look about you ; ' and then I went 
round by the rick-yard, and to wart the Treddles'on road ; and 
just as I come up by the big ash-tree, I see the man i' top- 
boots coming along on a bald-faced hoss — I wish I may never 
stir if I did n't. And I stood still till he come up, and I says, 

4 Good morning, sir,' I says, for I wanted to hear the turn of 
his tongue, as I might know whether he was a this-country- 
man ; so I says, 4 Good morning, sir : it ’ll 'old hup for the bar- 
ley this morning. I think. There ’ll be a bit got hin, if we 've 
good luck.' And he says, 4 Eh, ye may be raight, there 's noo 
tailin',’ he says; and I knowed by that'' — here Mr. Casson 
gave a wink — 44 as he did n't come from a hundred mile off. 
I dare say he 'd think me a hodd talker, as you Loamshire 
folks allays does hany one as talks the right language.” 

44 The right language ! '' said Bartle Massey, contemptuously, 



/ 


The “ Donnithorne Arms,” Hayslope, (Bromley Arms, Ellaston). 































































































. 



















MRS. POYSER “HAS HER SAY OUT.” So8 

“ You ’re about as near the right language as a pig’s squeaking 
is like a tune played on a key-bugle.” 

“ Well, I don’t know/’ answered Mr. Casson, with an angry 
smile. “ I should think a man as has lived among the gentry 
from a by, is likely to know what ’s the right language pretty 
nigh as well as a schoolmaster.” 

“Ay, ay, man,” said Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic con- 
solation, “you talk the right language for you. When Mike 
Holdsworth’s goat says ba-a-a, it ’s all right — it ’ud be un- 
natural for it to make any other noise.” 

The rest of the party being Loamshire men, Mr. Casson had 
the laugh strongly against him, and wisely fell back on the 
previous question, which, far from being exhausted in a single 
evening, was renewed in the churchyard, before service, the 
next day, with the fresh interest conferred on all news when 
there is a fresh person to hear it ; and that fresh hearer was 
Martin Poyser, who, as his wife said, “ never went boozin’ 
with that set at Casson’s, a-sittin’ soakin’-in drink, and looking 
as wise as a lot o’ cod-fish wi’ red faces.” 

It was probably owing to the conversation she had had with 
her husband on their way from church, concerning this prob- 
lematic stranger, that Mrs. Poyser’s thoughts immediately 
reverted to him when, a day or two afterwards, as she was 
standing at the house-door with her knitting, in that eager 
leisure which came to her when the afternoon cleaning was 
done, she saw the old Squire enter the yard on his black pony, 
followed by John the groom. She always cited it afterwards 
as a case of prevision, which really had something more in it 
than her own remarkable penetration, that the moment she set 
eyes on the Squire, she said to herself, “ I shouldna wonder if 
he ’s come about that man as is a-going to take the Chase 
Farm, wanting Poyser to do something for him without pay. 
But Poyser ’s a fool if he does.” 

Something unwonted must clearly be in the wind, for the 
old Squire’s visits to his tenantry were rare ; and though Mrs. 
Poyser had during the last twelvemonth recited many imagi- 
nary speeches, meaning even more than met the ear, which 
she was quite determined to make to him the next time he 

*OL. I. 


354 


ADAM BEDE. 


appeared within the gates of the Hall Farm, the speeches had 
always remained imaginary. 

“ Good-day, Mrs. Poyser,” said the old Squire, peering at 
her with his short-sighted eyes — a mode of looking at her 
which, as Mrs. Poyser observed, “allays aggravated her: it 
was as if you was a insect, and he was going to dab his finger* 
nail on you.” 

However, she said, “Your servant, sir,” and curtsied with an 
air of perfect deference as she advanced towards him : she was 
not the woman to misbehave towards her betters, and fly in 
the face of the catechism, without severe provocation. 

“ Is your husband at home, Mrs. Poyser ? ” 

“Yes, sir; he’s only i’ the rick-yard. I’ll send for him m 
a minute, if you ’ll please to get down and step in.” 

“ Thank you ; I will do so. I want to consult him about a 
little matter ; but you are quite as much concerned in it, if 
not more. I must have your opinion too.” 

“Hetty, run and tell your uncle to come in,” said Mrs. Poy- 
ser, as they entered the house, and the old gentleman bowed 
low in answer to Hetty’s curtsy ; while Totty, conscious of a 
pinafore stained with gooseberry jam, stood hiding her face 
against the clock, and peeping round furtively. 

“What a fine old kitchen this is ! ” said Mr. Donnithorne, 
looking round admiringly. He always spoke in the same de- 
liberate, well-chiselled, polite way, whether his words were 
sugary or venomous. “ And you keep it so exquisitely clean, 
Mrs. Poyser. I like these premises, do you know, beyond any 
on the estate.” 

“Well, sir, since you’re fond of ’em, I should be glad if 
you ’d let a bit o’ repairs be done to ’em, for the boarding ’s i’ 
that state, as we ’re like to be eaten up wi’ rats and mice ; and 
the cellar, you may stan’ up to your knees i’ water in ’t, if you 
like to go down ; but perhaps you ’d rather believe my words 
Won’t you please to sit down, sir ? ” 

“Not yet; I must see your dairy. I have not seen it for 
years, and I hear on all hands about your fine cheese and but- 
ter,” said the Squire, looking politely unconscious that there 
could be any question on which he and Mrs. Poyser might 


855 


MRS. POYSER “ HAS HER SAY OUT.” 

happen to disagree. “ I think I see the door open, there : you 
must not be surprised if I cast a covetous eye on your cream 
and butter. I don’t expect that Mrs. Satchell’s cream and 
butter will bear comparison with yours.” 

“ I can’t say, sir, I ’in sure. It ’s seldom I see other folks’s 
butter, though there ’s some on it as one ’s no need to see — 
the smell ’s enough.” 

“ Ah, now this I like,” said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round 
at the damp temple of cleanliness, but keeping near the door. 
“I’m sure I should like my breakfast better if I knew the 
butter and cream came from this dairy. Thank you, that 
really is a pleasant sight. Unfortunately, my slight tendency 
to rheumatism makes me afraid of damp: I’ll sit down in 
your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how do you do ? In 
the midst of business, I see, as usual. I ’ve been looking at 
your wife’s beautiful dairy — the best manager in the parish, 
is she not ? ” 

Mr. Poyser had just entered in shirt-sleeves and open waist- 
coat, with a face a shade redder than usual, from the exertion 
of “ pitching.” As he stood, red, rotund, and radiant, before 
the small, wiry, cool, old gentleman, he looked like a prize 
apple by the side of a withered crab. 

“ Will you please to take this chair, sir ? ” he said, lifting 
his father’s arm-chair forward a little : “ you ’ll find it easy.” 

“No, thank you, I never sit in easy-chairs,” said the old 
gentleman, seating himself on a small chair near the door. 
“Do you know, Mrs. Poyser — sit down, pray, both of you — - 
I’ve been far from contented, for some time, with Mrs. 
Satchell’s dairy management. I think she has not a good 
method, as you have.” 

“ Indeed, sir, I can’t speak to that,” said Mrs. Poyser, in a 
hard voice, rolling and unrolling her knitting, and looking 
icily out of the window, as she continued to stand opposite the 
Squire. Poyser might sit down if he liked, she thought: she 
was n’t going to sit down, as if she ’d give in to any such 
smooth-tongued palaver. Mr. Poyser, who looked and felt the 
reverse of icy, did sit down in his three-cornered chair. 

And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending to 


856 


ADAM dEDE. 


let the Chase Farm to a respectable tenant. I ’m tired of 
having a farm on my own hands — nothing is made the best 
of in such cases, as you know. A satisfactory bailiff is hard 
to find; and I think you and I, Poyser, and your excellent 
wife here, can enter into a little arrangement in consequence, 
which will be to our mutual advantage.” 

“Oh,” said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of 
imagination as to the nature of the arrangement. 

“ If I ’m called upon to speak, sir,” said Mrs. Poyser, after 
glancing at her husband with pity at his softness, “ you know 
better than me ; but I don’t see what the Chase Farm is t’ us 
— we’ve cumber enough wi’ our own farm. Not but what 
I ’m glad to hear o’ anybody respectable coming into the par- 
ish : there ’s some as ha’ been brought in as has n’t been looked 
on i’ that character.” 

“You’re likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbor, I 
assure you : such a one as you will feel glad to have accommo- 
dated by the little plan I ’m going to mention ; especially 
as I hope you will find it as much to your own advantage as 
his.” 

“ Indeed, sir, if it ’s anything t’ our advantage, it ’ll be the 
first offer o’ the sort I ’ve heared on. It ’s them as take ad 
vantage that get advantage i’ this world, I think : folks have 
to wait long enough afore it ’s brought to ’em.” 

“The fact is, Poyser,” said the Squire, ignoring Mrs. Poy- 
aer’s theory of worldly prosperity, “there is too much dairy 
land, and too little plough land, on the Chase Farm, to suit 
Thurle’s purpose — indeed, he will only take the farm on con- 
dition of some change in it : his wife, it appears, is not a 
clever dairy-woman, like yours. Now, the plan I ’m thinking 
of is to effect a little exchange. If you were to have the 
Hollow Pastures, you might increase your dairy, which must 
be so profitable under your wife’s management; and I should 
request you, Mrs. Poyser, to supply my house with milk, cream, 
and butter, at the market prices. On the other hand, Poyser, 
you might let Thurle have the Lower and Upper Ridges, which 
really, with our wet seasons, would be a good riddance for you. 
There is much less risk in dairy land than corn land” 


MRS. POYSER “ HAS HER SAY OUT.” 35? 

Mr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his 
knee% his head on one side, and his mouth screwed up — ap- 
parently absorbed in making the tips of his fingers meet so as 
to represent with, perfect accuracy the ribs of a ship. He was 
much too acute a man not to see through the whole business, 
and to foresee perfectly what would be his wife’s view of the 
subject; but he disliked giving unpleasant answers; unless it 
was on a point of farming practice, he would rather give up 
than have a quarrel, any day ; and, after all, it mattered more 
to his wife than to him. So, after a few moments’ silence, he 
looked up at her and said mildly, “ What dost say ? ” 

Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with 
cold severity during his silence, but now she turned away her 
head with a toss, looked icily at the opposite roof of the cow- 
shed, and spearing her knitting together with the loose pin, 
held it firmly between her clasped hands. 

“ Say ? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving up 
any o’ your corn land afore your lease is up, which it won’t be 
for a year come next Michaelmas, but I ’ll not consent to take 
more dairy work into my hands, either for love or money; 
and there ’s nayther love nor money here, as I can see, on’y 
other folks’s love o’ theirselves, and the money as is to go into 
other folks’s pockets. I know there ’s them as is born t’ own 
the land, and them as is born to sweat on ’t ” — here Mrs. Poy- 
ser paused to gasp a little — “ and I know it ’s christened 
folks’s duty to submit to their betters as fur as flesh and 
blood ’ull bear it ; but I ’ll not make a martyr o’ myself, and 
wear myself to skin and bone, and worret myself as if I was a 
churn wi’ butter a-coming in ’t, for no landlord in England, not 
if he was King George himself.” 

“No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not,” said the 
Squire, still confident in his own powers of persuasion, “you 
must not overwork yourself ; but don’t you think your work 
will rather be lessened than increased in this way ? There is 
so much milk required at the Abbey, that you will have little 
increase of cheese and butter making from the addition to your 
dairy; and I believe selling the milk is the most profitable 
way of disposing of dairy produce, is it not ? ” 


358 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Ay, that ’s true,” said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an 
opinion on a question of farming profits, and forgetting that 
it was not in this case a purely abstract question. 

“ I dare say,” said Mrs. Poyser bitterly, turning her head 
half-way towards her husband, and looking at the vacant arm- 
chair — “I dare say it ’s true for men as sit i’ th’ chimney-cor- 
ner and make believe as everything’s cut wi’ ins an’ outs to fit 
int’ everything else. If you could make a pudding wi’ think- 
ing o’ the batter, it ’ud be easy getting dinner. How do I 
know whether the milk ’ull be wanted constant ? What ’s to 
make me sure as the house won’t be put o’ board wage afore 
we ’re many months older, and then I may have to lie awake 
o’ nights wi’ twenty gallons o’ milk on my mind — and Din- 
gall ’ull take no more butter, let alone paying for it ; and we 
must fat pigs till we ’re obliged to beg the butcher on our 
knees to buy ’em, and lose half of ’em wi’ the measles. And 
there ’s the fetching and carrying, as ’ud be welly half a day’s 
work for a man an’ hoss — that ’s to be took out o’ the profits, 
I reckon ? But there ’s folks ’ud hold a sieve under the pump 
and expect to carry away the water.” 

“ That difficulty — about the fetching and carrying — you 
will not have, Mrs. Poyser,” said the Squire, who thought that 
this entrance into particulars indicated a distant inclination to 
compromise on Mrs. Poyser’s part — “ Bethell will do that 
regularly with the cart and pony.” 

“ Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I ’ve never been used t’ hav- 
ing gentlefolks’s servants coming about my back places, a-mak- 
ing love to both the gells at once, and keeping ’em with their 
hands on their hips listening to all manner o’ gossip when they 
should be down on their knees a-scouring. If we ’re to go to 
ruin, it shanna be wi’ having our back-kitchen turned into a 
public.” 

“Well, Poyser,” said the Squire, shifting his tactics, and 
looking as if he thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly withdrawn 
from the proceedings and left the room, “you can turn the 
Hollows into feeding-land. I can easily make another arrange- 
ment about supplying my house. And I shall not forget your 
•readiness to accommodate your landlord as well as a neighbor. 


MRS. POYSER “ HAS HER SAY OUT.” 


359 


I know you will be glad to have your lease renewed for three 
years, when the present one expires ; otherwise, I dare say 
Thurle, who is a man of some capital, would be glad to take 
both the farms, as they could be worked so well together. 
But I don’t want to part with an old tenant like you.” 

To be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have 
been enough to complete Mrs. Poyser’s exasperation, even 
without the final threat. Her husband, really alarmed at the 
possibility of their leaving the old place where he had been 
bred and born — for he believed the old Squire had small spite 
enough for anything — was beginning a mild remonstrance ex- 
planatory of the inconvenience he should find in having to buy 
and sell more stock, with — 

“Well, sir, I think as it s rether hard — ” when Mrs. 
Poyser burst in with the desperate determination to have her 
say out this once, though it were to rain notices to quit, and 
the only shelter were the workhouse. 

“ Then, sir, if I may speak — as, for all I ’m a woman, and 
there ’s folks as thinks a woman ’s fool enough to stan’ by an’ 
look on while the men sign her soul away, I ’ve a right to 
speak, for I make one quarter o’ the rent, and save another 
quarter — I say, if Mr. Thurle ’s so ready to take farms under 
you, it ’s a pity but what he should take this, and see if he 
likes to live in a house wi’ all the plagues o’ Egypt in ’t — wi’ 
the cellar full o’ water, and frogs and toads hoppin’ up the 
steps by dozens — and the floors rotten, and the rats and mice 
gnawing every bit o’ cheese, and runnin’ over our heads as we 
lie i’ bed till we expect ’em to eat us up alive — as it ’s a mercy 
they hanna eat the children long ago. I should like to see if 
there ’s another tenant besides Poyser as ’ud put up wi’ never 
having a bit o’ repairs done till a place tumbles down — and 
not then, on’y wi’ begging and praying, and having to pay 
half — and being strung up wi’ the rent as it ’s much if he get3 
enough out o’ the land to pay, for all he ’s put his own money 
into the ground beforehand. See if you ’ll get a stranger to 
lead such a life here as that : a maggot must be born i’ the 
rotten cheese to like it, I reckon. You may run away fron? 
my words, sir,” continued Mrs. Poyser, following the old Squire 


360 


ADAM BEDE. 


beyond the door — for after the first moments of stunned sur 
prise he had got up, and, waving his hand towards her with a 
smile, had walked out towards his pony. But it was impos- 
sible for him to get away immediately, for John was walking 
the pony up and down the yard, and was some distance from 
the causeway when his master beckoned. 

“ You may run away from my words, sir, and you may go 
spinnin’ underhand ways o’ doing us a mischief, for you ’ve 
got Old Harry to your friend, though nobody else is, but I tell 
you for once as we *re not dumb creatures to be abused and 
made money on by them as ha’ got the lash i’ their hands, for 
want o’ knowing how t’ undo the tackle. An’ if I ’m th’ only 
one as speaks my mind, there’s plenty o’ the same way o’ 
thinking i’ this parish and the next to ’t, for your name ’s no 
better than a brimstone match in everybody’s nose — if it isna 
two-three old folks as you think o’ saving your soul by giving 
’em a bit o’ flannel and a drop o’ porridge. An’ you may be 
right i’ thinking it ’ll take but little to save your soul, for it ’ll 
be the smallest savin’ y’ iver made, wi’ all your scrapin’.” 

There are occasions on which two servant-girls and a wag- 
oner may be a formidable audience, and as the Squire rode 
away on his black pony, even the gift of short-sightedness did 
not prevent him from being aware that Molly and Nancy and 
Tim were grinning not far from him. Perhaps he suspected 
that sour old John was grinning behind him — which was also 
the fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the black-and-tan terrier, 
Alick’s sheep-dog, and the gander hissing at a safe distance 
from the pony’s heels, carried out the idea of Mrs, Poyser’s 
solo in an impressive quartet. 

Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move off 
than she turned round, gave the two hilarious damsels a look 
which drove them into the back-kitchen, and, unspearing her 
knitting, began to knit again with her usual rapidity, as she 
re-entered the house. 

“Thee’st done it now,” said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed 
and uneasy, but not without some triumphant amusement at 
his wife’s outbreak. 

“Yes, I know I’ve done it,” said Mrs. Poyser; “but I’ve 


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had my say out, and I shall be th’ easier for ’t all my life. 
There ’s no pleasure i’ living, if you ’re to be' corked up for- 
ever, and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like a leaky 
barrel. I shan’t repent saying what I think, if I live to be as 
old as th’ old Squire ; and there ’s little likelihoods — for it 
seems as if them as are n’t wanted here are th’ only folks as 
are n’t wanted i’ th’ other world.” 

“But thee wutna like moving from th’ old place, this 
Michaelmas twelvemonth,” said Mr. Poyser, “and going into 
a strange parish, where thee know’st nobody. It ’ll be hard 
upon us both, and upo’ father too.” 

“Eh, it’s no use worreting; there’s plenty o’ things may 
happen between this and Michaelmas twelvemonth. The Cap- 
tain may be master afore then, for what we know,” said Mrs. 
Poyser, inclined to take an unusually hopeful view of an em- 
barrassment which had been brought about by her own merit, 
and not by other people’s fault. 

‘‘I’m none for worreting,” said Mr. Poyser, rising from his 
three-cornered chair, and walking slowly towards the door; 
“ But I should be loath to leave th’ old place, and the parish 
where I was bred and born, and father afore me. We should 
leave our roots behind us, I doubt, and niver thrive again.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

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The barley was all carried at last, and the harvest suppers 
went by without waiting for the dismal black crop of beans. 
The apples and nuts were gathered and stored; the scent of 
whey departed from the farmhouses, and the scent of brewing 
came in its stead. The woods behind the Chase, and all the 
hedgerow trees, took on a solemn splendor under the dark 
low-hanging skies. Michaelmas was come, with its fragrant 
basketfuls of purple damsons, and its paler purple daisies, and 
its lads and lasses leaving or seeking service, and winding along 


362 


ADAM BEDE. 


between the yellow hedges, with their bundles under their 
arms. But though Michaelmas was come, Mr. Thurle, that 
desirable tenant, did not come to the Chase Farm, and the old 
Squire, after all, had been obliged to put in a new bailiff. It 
was known throughout the two parishes that the Squire’s plan 
had been frustrated because the Poysers had refused to be 
“ put upon,” and Mrs. Poyser’s outbreak was discussed in all 
the farmhouses with a zest which was only heightened by 
frequent repetition. The news that “ Bony ” was come back 
from Egypt was comparatively insipid, and the repulse of the 
French in Italy was nothing to Mrs. Poyser’s repulse of the 
old Squire. Mr. Irwine had heard a version of it in every 
parishioner’s house, with the one exception of the Chase. But 
since he had always, with marvellous skill, avoided any quarrel 
with Mr. Donnithorne, he could not allow himself the pleasure 
of laughing at the old gentleman’s discomfiture with any one 
besides his mother, who declared that if she were rich she 
should like to allow Mrs. Poyser a pension for life, and wanted 
to invite her to the parsonage, that she might hear an account 
of the scene from Mrs. Poyser’s own lips. 

“No, no, mother,” said Mr. Irwine; “it was a little bit of 
irregular justice on Mrs. Poyser’s part, but a magistrate like 
me must not countenance irregular justice. There must be no 
report spread that I have taken notice of the quarrel, else I 
shall lose the little good influence I have over the old man.” 

“Well, I like that woman even better than her cream 
cheeses,” said Mrs. Irwine. “ She has the spirit of three 
men, with that pale face of hers ; and she says such sharp 
things too.” 

“Sharp! yes, her tongue is like a new-set razor. She’s 
quite original in her talk, too ; one of those untaught wits 
that help to stock a country with proverbs. I told you that 
capital thing I heard her say about Craig — that he was like a 
cock, who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow. Now 
that ’s an iEsop’s fable in a sentence.” 

“ But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman turns 
them out of the farm next Michaelmas, eh ? ” said Mrs. 
Irwine. 


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“Oh, that must not be; and Poyser is such a good tenant, 
that Donnithorne is likely to think twice, and digest his 
spleen rather than turn them out. But if he should give 
them notice at Lady Bay, Arthur and I must move heaven 
and earth to mollify him. Such old parishioners as they are 
must not go.” 

“ Ah, there ’s no knowing what may happen before Lady 
Bay,” said Mrs. Irwine. “ It struck me on Arthur’s birthday 
that the old man was a little shaken : he ’s eighty-three, you 
know. It’s really an unconscionable age. It’s only women 
who have a right to live as long as that.” 

“ When they ’ve got old-bachelor sons who would be forlorn 
without them,” said Mr. Irwine, laughing, and kissing his 
mother’s hand. 

Mrs. Poyser, too, met her husband’s occasional forebodings 
of a notice to quit with “There’s no knowing what may 
happen before Lady Bay : ” — one of those undeniable general 
propositions which are usually intended to convey a particular 
meaning very far from undeniable. But it is really too hard 
upon human nature that it should be held a criminal offence 
to imagine the death even of the king when he is turned 
eighty-three. It is not to be believed that any but the dullest 
Britons can be good subjects under that hard condition. 

Apart from this foreboding, things went on much as 
usual in the Poyser household. Mrs. Poyser thought she 
noticed a surprising improvement in Hetty. To be sure, the 
girl got “ closer tempered, and sometimes she seemed as if 
there ’d be no drawing a word from her with cart-ropes ; ” but 
she thought much less about her dress, and went after the 
work quite eagerly, without any telling. And it was won- 
derful how she never wanted to go out now — indeed, could 
hardly be persuaded to go ; and she bore her aunt’s putting a 
stop to her weekly lesson in fine-work at the Chase, without 
the least grumbling or pouting. It must be, after all, that 
she had set her heart on Adam at last, and her sudden freak 
of wanting to be a lady’s-maid must have been caused by some 
little pique or misunderstanding between them, which had 
passed by. Por whenever Adam came to the Hall Farm, 


364 


ADAM BEDE. 


Hetty seemed to be in better spirits, and to talk more than at 
other times, though she was almost sullen when Mr. Craig or 
any other admirer happened to pay a visit there. 

Adam himself watched her at first with trembling anxiety, 
which gave way to surprise and delicious hope. Five days 
after delivering Arthur’s letter, he had ventured to go to 
the Hall Farm again — not without dread lest the sight of 
him might be painful to her. She was not in the house-place 
when he entered, and he sat talking to Mr. and Mrs. Poyser 
for a few minutes with a heavy fear on his heart that they 
might presently tell him Hetty was ill. But by-and-by there 
came a light step that he knew, and when Mrs. Poyser 
said, “Come, Hetty, where have you been?” Adam was 
obliged to turn round, though he was afraid to see the 
changed look there must be in her face. He almost started 
when he saw her smiling as if she were pleased to see him — 
looking the same as ever at a first glance, only that she had 
her cap on, which he had never seen her in before when he 
came of an evening. Still, when he looked at her again and 
again as she moved about or sat at her work, there was a 
change : the cheeks were as . pink as ever, and she smiled as * 
much as she had ever done of late, but there was something 
different in her eyes, in the expression of her face, in all her 
movements, Adam thought — something harder, older, less 
child-like. “ Poor thing ! ” he said to himself, “ that ’s allays 
likely. It’s because she ’s had her first heartache. But she’s 
got a spirit to bear up under it. Thank God for that.” 

As the weeks went by, and he saw her always looking 
pleased to see him — turning up her lovely face towards him 
as if she meant him to understand that she was glad for him 
to come — and going about her work in the same equable way, 
making no sign of sorrow, he began to believe that her feeling 
towards Arthur must have been much slighter than he had 
imagined in his first indignation and alarm, and that she had 
been able to think of her girlish fancy that Arthur was in 
love with her and would marry her, as a folly of which she 
was timely cured. And it perhaps was, as he had sometimes 
in his more cheerful moments hoped it would be — her heart 


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was really turning with all the more warmth towards the man 
she knew to have a serious love for her. 

Possibly you think that Adam was not at all sagacious in 
his interpretations, and that it was altogether extremely un- 
becoming in a sensible man to behave as be did — falling in 
love with a girl who really had nothing more than her beauty 
to recommend her, attributing imaginary virtues to her, and 
even condescending to cleave to her after she had fallen in 
love with another man, waiting for her kind looks as a patient 
trembling dog waits for his master’s eye to be turned upon 
him. But in so complex a thing as human nature, we must 
consider, it is hard to find rules without exceptions. Of 
course, I know that, as a rule, sensible men fall in love with 
the most sensible women of their acquaintance, see through 
all the pretty deceits of coquettish beauty, never imagine 
themselves loved when they are not loved, cease loving on all 
proper occasions, and marry the woman most fitted for them 
in every respect — indeed, so as to compel the approbation of 
all the maiden ladies in their neighborhood. But even to this 
rule an exception will occur now and then in the lapse of 
centuries, and my friend Adam was one. For my own part, 
however, I respect him none the less : nay, I think the deep 
love he had for that sweet, rounded, blossom-like, dark-eyed 
Hetty, of whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came 
out of the very strength of his nature, and not out of any in- 
consistent weakness. Is it any weakness, pray, to be wrought 
on by exquisite music? — to feel its wondrous harmonies 
searching the subtlest windings of your soul, the delicate 
fibres of life where no memory can penetrate, and binding to- 
gether your whole being past and present in one unspeakable 
vibration : melting you in one moment with all the tenderness, 
all the love that has been scattered through the toilsome 
years, concentrating in one emotion of heroic courage or 
resignation all the hard-learnt lessons of self-renouncing sym- 
pathy, blending your present joy with past sorrow, and your 
present sorrow with all your past joy ? If not, then neither 
is it a weakness to be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves 
of a woman’s cheek and neck and arms, by the liquid depths 


ADAM BEDE. 


fiG6 

of lier beseeching eyes, or the sweet childish pout of her lips. 
Eor the beauty of a lovely woman is like music : what can one 
say more ? Beauty has an expression beyond and far above 
the one woman’s soul that it clothes, as the words of genius 
have a wider meaning than the thought that prompted them : 
it is more than a woman’s love that moves us in a woman’s 
eyes — it seems to be a far-off mighty love that has come near 
to us, and made speech for itself there ; the rounded neck, the 
dimpled arm, move us by something more than their pretti- 
ness — by their close kinship with all we have known of ten- 
derness and peace. The noblest nature sees the most of this 
impersonal expression in beauty (it is needless to say that 
there are gentlemen with whiskers dyed and undyed who see 
none of it whatever), and for this reason, the noblest nature is 
often the most blinded to the character of the one woman’s 
soul that the beauty clothes. Whence, I fear, the tragedy of 
human life is likely to continue for a long time to come, in 
spite of mental philosophers who are ready with the best 
receipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind. 

Our good Adam had no fine words into which he could put 
his feeling for Hetty : he could not disguise mystery in this 
way with the appearance of knowledge; he called his love 
frankly a mystery, as you have heard him. He only knew 
that the sight and memory of her moved him deeply, touching 
the spring of all love and tenderness, all faith and courage 
within him. How could he imagine narrowness, selfishness, 
hardness in her ? He created the mind he believed in out of 
his own, which was large, unselfish, tender. 

. The hopes he felt about Hetty softened a little his feeling 
towards Arthur. Surely his attentions to Hetty must have 
been of a slight kind ; they were altogether wrong, and such 
as no man in Arthur’s position ought to have allowed himself, 
but they must have had an air of playfulness about them, 
which had probably blinded him to their danger, and had pre- 
vented them from laying any strong hold on Hetty’s heart. 
As the new promise of happiness rose for Adam, his indig- 
nation and jealousy began to die out: Hetty was not made 
unhappy; he almost believed that she liked him best; and 


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the thought sometimes crossed his mind that the friendship 
which had once seemed dead forever might revive in the days 
to come, and he would not have to say “ good-by ” to the grand 
old woods, but would like them better because they were 
Arthur’s. For this new promise of happiness, following so 
quickly on the shock of pain, had an intoxicating effect on the 
sober Adam, who had all his life been used to much hardship 
and moderate hope. Was he really going to have an easy lot 
after all ? It seemed so ; for at the beginning of November, 
Jonathan Burge, finding it impossible to replace Adam, had at 
last made up his mind to offer him a share in the business, 
without further condition than that he should continue to give 
his energies to it, and renounce all thought of having a sepa- 
rate business of his own. Son-in-law or no son-in-law, Adam 
had made himself too necessary to be parted with, and his 
head work was so much more important to Burge than his skill 
in handicraft, that his having the management of the woods 
made little difference in the value of his services ; and as to 
the bargains about the Squire’s timber, it would be easy to 
call in a third person. Adam saw here an opening into a 
broadening path of prosperous work, such as he had thought 
of with ambitious longing ever since he was a lad : he might 
come to build a bridge, or a town-hall, or a factory, for he had 
always said to himself that Jonathan Burge’s building business 
was like an acorn, which might be the mother of a great tree. 
So he gave his hand to Burge on that bargain, and went home 
with his mind full of happy visions, in which (my refined 
reader will perhaps be shocked when I say it) the image of 
Hetty hovered, and smiled over plans for seasoning timber at 
a trifling expense, calculations as to the cheapening of bricks 
per thousand by water-carriage, and a favorite scheme for the 
strengthening of roofs and walls with a peculiar form of iron 
girder. What then ? Adam’s enthusiasm lay in these things ; 
and our love is inwrought in our enthusiasm as electricity is 
inwrought in the air, exalting its power by a subtle presence. 

Adam would be able to take a separate house now, and pro- 
vide for his mother in the old one ; his prospects would justify 
his marrying very soon, and if Dinah consented to have Seth* 


368 


ADAM BEDE. 


their mother would perhaps be more contented to live apart 
from Adam. But he told himself that he would not be hasty 
— he would not try Hetty’s feeling for him until it had had 
time to grow strong and firm. However, to-morrow, after 
church, he would go to the Hall Farm and tell them the news. 
Mr. Poyser, he knew, would like it better than a five-pound 
note, and he should see if Hetty’s eyes brightened at it. The 
months would be short with all he had to fill his mind, and 
this foolish eagerness which had come over him of late must 
not hurry him into any premature words. Yet when he got 
home and told his mother the good news, and ate his supper, 
while she sat by almost crying for joy, and wanting him to 
eat twice as much as usual because of this good luck, he could 
not help preparing her gently for the coming change, by talk- 
ing of the old house being too small for them all to go on living 
in it always. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

THE BETROTHAL. 

It was a dry Sunday, and really a pleasant day tew the 2d 
of November. There was no sunshine, but the clouds were 
high, and the wind was so still that the yellow leaves which 
fluttered down from the hedgerow elms must have fallen from 
pure decay. Nevertheless, Mrs. Poyser did not go to church, 
for she had taken a cold too serious to be neglected ; only two 
winters ago she had been laid up for weeks with a cold ; and 
'since his wife did not go to church, Mr. Poyser considered that 
on the whole it would be as well for him to stay away too and 
“ keep her company.” He could perhaps have given no precise 
form to the reasons that determined this conclusion ; but it is 
well known to all experienced minds that our firmest convic- 
tions are often dependent on subtle impressions for which 
words are quite too coarse a medium. However it was, no 
one from the Poyser family went to church that afternoon 
except Hetty and the boys; yet Adam was b<i*ld enough to 


THE BETROTHAL. 


309 


join them after church, and say that he would walk home with 
them, though all the way through the village he appeared to 
be chiefly occupied with Marty and Tommy, telling them about 
the squirrels in Binton Coppice, and promising to take them 
there some day. But when they came to the fields he said to 
the boys, “ Now, then, which is the stoutest walker ? Him as 
gets to th’ home-gate first shall be the first to go with me to 
Binton Coppice on the donkey. But Tommy must have the 
start up to the next stile, because he ’s the smallest.” 

Adam had never behaved so much like a determined lover 
before. As soon as the boys had both set off, he looked down 
at Hetty, and said, “Won’t you hang on my arm, Hetty ? ” in 
a pleading tone, as if he had already asked her and she had 
refused. Hetty looked up at him smilingly and put her round 
arm through his in a moment. It was nothing to her — putting 
her arm through Adam’s ; but she knew he cared a great deal 
about having her arm through his, and she wished him to care. 
Her heart beat no faster, and she looked at the half-bare hedge- 
rows and the ploughed field with the same sense of oppressive 
dulness as before. But Adam scarcely felt that he was walk- 
ing ; he thought Hetty must know that he was pressing her 
arm a little — a very little ; words rushed to his lips that he 
dared not utter — that he had made up his mind not to utter 
yet ; and so he was silent for the length of that field. The 
calm patience with which he had once waited for Hetty’s love, 
content only with her presence and the thought of the future, 
had forsaken him since that terrible shock nearly three months 
ago. The agitations of jealousy had given a new restlessness 
to his passion — had made fear and uncertainty too har( 
almost to bear. But though he might not speak to Hetty of 
his love, he would tell her about his new prospects, and see if 
she would be pleased. So when he was enough master of him- 
self to talk, he said — 

“ I ’m going to tell your uncle some news that ’ll surprise 
him, Hetty ; and I think he ’ll be glad to hear it too.” 

“ What ’s that ? ” Hetty said, indifferently. 

“Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, 
and I ’m going to take it.” 


VOL. 


870 


ADAM BEDE. 


There was a change in Hetty’s face, certainly not produced 
by any agreeable impression from this news. In fact she felt 
a momentary annoyance and alarm ; for she had so often heard 
it hinted by her uncle that Adam might have Mary Burge and 
a share in the business any day if he liked, that she associated 
the two objects now, and the thought immediately occurred 
that perhaps Adam had given her up because of what had 
happened lately, and had turned towards Mary Burge. With 
that thought, and before she had time to remember any rea- 
sons why it could not be true, came a new sense of forsaken- 
ness and disappointment: the one thing — the one person — 
her mind had rested on in its dull weariness, had slipped away 
from her, and peevish misery filled her eyes with tears. She 
was looking on the ground, but Adam saw her face, saw the 
tears, and before he had finished saying, “ Hetty, dear Hetty, 
what are you crying for ? ” his eager rapid thought had flown 
through all the causes conceivable to him, and had at last 
alighted on half the true one. Hetty thought he was going 
to marry Mary Burge — she did n’t like him to marry — per- 
haps she did n’t like him to marry any one but herself ? All 
caution was swept away — all reason for it was gone, and Adam 
could feel nothing but trembling joy. He leaned towards her 
and took her hand, as he said — 

“I could afford to be married now, Hetty — I could make a 
wife comfortable ; but I shall never want to be married if you 
won’t have me.” 

Hetty looked up at him, and smiled through her tears as 
she had done to Arthur that first evening in the wood, when 
she had thought he was not coming, and yet he came. It was 
a feebler relief, a feebler triumph she felt now, but the great 
dark eyes and the sweet lips were as beautiful as ever, perhaps 
more beautiful, for there was a more luxuriant womanliness 
about Hetty of late. Adam could hardly believe in the happi- 
ness of that moment. His right hand held her left, and he 
pressed her arm close against his heart as he leaned down 
towards her. 

“ Do you really love me, Hetty ? Will you be my own wife, 
to love and take care of as long as I live ? ” 


THE BETROTHAL. 


371 


Hetty did not speak, but Adam’s face was very close to hers, 
and she put up her round cheek against his, like a kitten. She 
wanted to be caressed — she wanted to feel as if Arthur were 
with her again. 

Adam cared for no words after that, and they hardly spoke 
through the rest of the walk. He only said, “ I may tell your 
uncle and aunt, may n’t I, Hetty ? ” and she said, “Yes.” 

The red fire-light on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on 
joyful faces that evening, when Hetty was gone up-stairs and 
Adam took the opportunity of telling Mr. and Mrs. Poyser 
and the grandfather that he saw his way to maintaining a wife 
now, and that Hetty had consented to have him. 

“ I hope you have no objections against me for her husband,” 
said Adam ; “ I ’m a poor man as yet, but she shall want nothing 
as I can work for.” 

“ Objections ? ” said Mr. Poyser, while the grandfather leaned 
forward and brought out his long “ Nay, nay.” “ What objec- 
tions can we ha’ to you, lad ? Never mind your being poorish 
as yet; there ’s money in your head-piece as there’s money i’ 
the sown field, but it must ha’ time. You’n got enough to begin 
on, and we can do a deal tow’rt the bit o’ furniture you ’ll want. 
Thee ’st got feathers and linen to spare — plenty, eh ? ” 

This question was of course addressed to Mrs. Poyser, who 
was wrapped up in a warm shawl, and was too hoarse to speak 
with her usual facility. At first she only nodded emphatically, 
but she was presently unable to resist the temptation to be 
more explicit. 

“ It ’ud be a poor tale if I hadna feathers and linen,” she 
said, hoarsely, “ when I never sell a fowl but what ’s plucked, 
and the wheel ’s a-going every day o’ the week.” 

“ Come, my wench,” said Mr. Poyser, when Hetty came 
down, “ come and kiss us, and let us wish you luck.” 

Hetty went very quietly and kissed the big good-natured 
man. 

“ There ! ” he said, patting her on the back, “ go and kiss 
your aunt and your grandfather. I ’m as wishful t’ have you 
settled well as if you was my own daughter ; and so ’s your 
aunt, I ’ll be bound, for she ’s done by you this seven ’ear, 


372 


ADAM BEDE. 


Hetty, as if you’d been her own. Come, come, now,” he went 
on becoming jocose, as soon as Hetty had kissed her aunt and 
the old man, “ Adam wants a kiss too, I’ll warrant, and he’s 
a right to one now.” 

Hetty turned away, smiling, towards her empty chair. 

“ Come, Adam, then take one,” persisted Mr. Poyser, "else 
y’ arena half a man.” 

Adam got up, blushing like a small maiden — great strong 
fellow as he was — and, putting his arm round Hetty, stooped 
down and gently kissed her lips. 

It was a pretty scene in the red fire-light : for there were 
no candles ; why should there be, when the fire was so bright, 
and was reflected from all the pewter and the polished oak ? 
No one wanted to work on Sunday evening. Even Hetty felt 
something like contentment in the midst of all this love. 
Adam’s attachment to her, Adam’s caress, stirred no passion 
in her, were no longer enough to satisfy her vanity; but 
they were the best her life offered her now — they promised 
her some change. 

There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went 
away, about the possibility of his finding a house that would 
do for him to settle in. No house was empty except the one 
next to Will Maskery’s in the village, and that was too small 
for Adam now. Mr. Poyser insisted that the best plan would 
be for Seth and his mother to move, and leave Adam in the 
Did home, which might be enlarged after a while, for there 
was plenty of space in the woodyard and garden ; but Adam 
objected to turning his mother out. 

"Well, well,” said Mr. Poyser at last, “we needna fix every- 
thing to-night. We must take time to consider. You canna 
think o’ getting married afore Easter. I ’m not for long 
courtships, but there must be a bit o’ time to make things 
comfortable. 

“ Ay, to be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper ; 
" Christian folks can’t be married like cuckoos, I reckon.” 

"I’m a bit daunted, though,” said Mr. Poyser, "when 1 
think as we may have notice to quit, and belike be forced to 
take a farm twenty mile off.” 


THE HIDDEN DREAD. 


373 


“Eh.” said the old man, staring at the floor, and lifting his 
hands up and down, while his arms rested on the elbows of 
his chair, “ it ’s a poor tale if I mun leave th’ ould spot, an’ be 
buried in a strange parish. An’ you ’ll happen ha’ double rates 
to pay,” he added, looking up at his son. 

“Well, thee mustna fret beforehand, father,” said Martin 
the younger. “ Happen the Captain ’ull come home and make 
our peace wi’ th’ old Squire. I build upo’ that, for I know 
the Captain ’ll see folks righted if he can.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE HIDDEN DREAD. 

It was a busy time for Adam — the time between the begin- 
ning of November and the beginning of February, and he could 
see little of Hetty, except on Sundays. But a happy time, 
nevertheless ; for it was taking him nearer and nearer to 
March, when they were to be married ; and all the little prepa- 
rations for their new housekeeping marked the progress towards 
the longed-for day. Two new rooms had been “ run up ” to 
the old house, for his mother and Seth were to live with them 
after all. Lisbeth had cried so piteously at the thought of 
leaving Adam, that he had gone to Hetty and asked her if, for 
the love of him, she would put up with his mother’s ways, and 
consent to live with her. To his great delight, Hetty said, 
“ Yes ; I ’d as soon she lived with us as not.” Hetty’s mind 
was oppressed at that moment with a worse difficulty than 
poor Lisbeth’s ways, she could not care about them. So Adam 
was consoled for the disappointment he had felt when Seth 
had come back from his visit to Snowfield and said “ it was 
no use — Dinah’s heart wasna turned towards marrying.” For 
when he told his mother that Hetty was willing they should 
all live together, and there was no more need of them to think 
of parting, she said, in a more contented tone than he had 
heard her speak in since it had been settled that he was to be 


374 


ADAM BEDE. 


married, “ Eh, my lad, I ’ll be as still as th’ ould tabby, an’ ne’ei 
want to do aught but th’ offal work, as she wonna like t’ do. 
An* then, we needna part the platters an’ things, as ha’ stood 
on the shelf together sin’ afore thee wast born.” 

There was only one cloud that now and then came across 
Adam’s sunshine : Hetty seemed unhappy sometimes. But 
to all his anxious, tender questions, she replied with an assure 
ance that she was quite contented and wished nothing different ; 
and the next time he saw her she was more lively than usual. 
It might be that she was a little overdone with work and 
anxiety now, for soon after Christmas Mrs. Poyser had taken 
another cold, which had brought on inflammation, and this 
illness had confined her to her room all through January. 
Hetty had to manage everything down-stairs, and half supply 
Molly’s place too, while that good damsel waited on her mis- 
tress ; and she seemed to throw herself so entirely into her 
new functions, working with a grave steadiness which was 
new in her, that Mr. Poyser often told Adam she was wanting 
to show him what a good housekeeper he would have ; but he 
i( doubted the lass was o’er-doing it — she must have a bit o’ 
rest when her aunt could come down-stairs.” 

This desirable event of Mrs. Poyser’s coming down-stairs 
happened in the early part of February, when some mild 
weather thawed the last patch of snow on the Binton Hills. 
On one of these days, soon after her aunt came down, Hetty 
went to Treddleston to buy some of the wedding things which 
were wanting, and which Mrs. Poyser had scolded her for 
neglecting, observing that she supposed “ it was because they 
were not for th’ outside, else she’d ha’ bought ’em fast 
enough.” 

It was about ten o’clock when Hetty set off, and the slight 
hoar-frost that had whitened the hedges in the early morning 
had disappeared as the sun mounted the cloudless sky. Bright 
February days have a stronger charm of hope about them than 
any other days in the year. One likes to pause in the mild 
rays of the sun, and look over the gates at the patient plough- 
horses turning at the end of the furrow, and think that the 
beautiful year is all betfore one. The birds seem to feel just 


THE HIDDEN DREAD. 


375 


the same : their notes are as clear as the clear air. There are 
no leaves on the trees and hedgerows, but how green all the 
grassy fields are ! and the dark purplish brown of the ploughed 
earth and of the bare branches is beautiful too. What a glad 
world this looks like, as one drives or rides along the valleys 
and over the hills ! I have often thought so when, in foreign 
countries, where the fields and woods have looked to me like 
our English Loamshire — the rich land tilled with just as 
much care, the woods rolling down the gentle slopes to the 
green meadows — I have come on something by the roadside 
which has reminded me that I am not in Loamshire : an image 
of a great agony — the agony of the Cross. It has stood per- 
haps by the clustering apple-blossoms, or in the broad sunshine 
by the cornfield, or at a turning by the wood where a clear 
brook was gurgling below ; and surely, if there came a traveller 
to this world who knew nothing of the story of man’s life upon 
it, this image of agony would seem to him strangely out of 
place in the midst of this joyous nature. He would not know 
that hidden behind the apple-blossoms, or among the golden 
corn, or under the shrouding boughs of the wood, there might 
be a human heart beating heavily with anguish; perhaps a 
young blooming girl, not knowing where to turn for refuge 
from swift-advancing shame ; understanding no more of this 
life of ours than a foolish lost lamb wandering farther and 
farther in the nightfall on the lonely heath ; yet tasting the 
bitterest of life’s bitterness. 

Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields 
and behind the blossoming orchards ; and the sound of the 
gurgling brook, if you came close to one spot behind a small 
bush, would be mingled for your ear with a despairing human 
sob. No wonder man’s religion has much sorrow in it : no 
wonder he needs a suffering God. 

Hetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet, with her basket 
in her hand, is turning towards a gate by the side of the 
Treddleston road, but not that she may have a more lingering 
enjoyment of the sunshine, and think with hope of the long 
unfolding year. She hardly knows that the sun is shining ; 
and for weeks, now, when she has hoped at all, it has been for 


376 


ADAM BEDE. 


something at which she herself trembles and shudders. She 
only wants to be out of the highroad, that she may walk 
slowly, and not care how her face looks, as she dwells on 
wretched thoughts ; and through this gate she can get into a 
field-path behind the wide thick hedgerows. Her great dark 
eyes wander blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who 
is desolate, homeless, unloved, not the promised bride ox a 
brave, tender man. But there are no tears in them : her tears 
were all wept away in the weary night, before she went to 
sleep. At the next stile the pathway branches off : there are 
two roads before her — one along by the hedgerow, which will 
by-and-by lead her into the road again ; the other across the 
fields, which will take her much farther out of the way into 
the Scantlands, low shrouded pastures where she will see 
nobody. She chooses this, and begins to walk a little faster, 
as if she had suddenly thought of an object towards which it 
was worth while to hasten. Soon she is in the Scantlands, 
where the grassy land slopes gradually downwards, and she 
leaves the level ground to follow the slope. Farther on there 
is a clump of trees on the low ground, and she is making her 
way towards it. No, it is not a clump of trees, but a dark 
shrouded pool, so full with the wintry rains that the under 
boughs of the elder-bushes lie low beneath the water. She 
sits down on the grassy bank, against the stooping stem of the 
great oak that hangs over the dark pool. She has thought of 
this pool often in the nights of the month that has just gone 
by, and now at last she is come to see it. She clasps her 
hands round her knees and leans forward, and looks earnestly 
at it, as if trying to guess what sort of bed it would make for 
her young round limbs. 

No, she has not courage to jump into that cold watery bed, 
and if she had, they might find her — they might find out why 
she had drowned herself. There is but one thing left to her ; 
she must go away, go where they can’t find her. 

After the first on-coming of her great dread, some weeks 
after her betrothal to Adam, she had waited and waited, in 
the blind vague hope that something would happen to set her 
fr^e her terror ; but she could wait no longer. All the 


THE HIDDEN DKEAD. 


377 


force of lier nature liad been concentrated on the one effort of 
concealment, and she had shrunk with irresistible dread from 
every course that could tend towards a betrayal of her miser- 
able secret. Whenever the thought of writing to Arthur had 
occurred to her, she had rejected it : he could do nothing for 
her that would shelter her from discovery and scorn among 
the relatives and neighbors who once more made all her world, 
now her airy dream had vanished. Her imagination no longer 
saw happiness with Arthur, for he could do nothing that would 
satisfy or soothe her pride. No, something else would happen 
— something must happen — to set her free from this dread. 
In young, childish, ignorant souls there is constantly this blind 
trust in some unshapen chance : it is as hard to a boy or girl 
to believe that a great wretchedness will actually befall them, 
as to believe that they will die. 

But now necessity was pressing hard upon her — now the 
time of her marriage was close at hand — she could no longer 
rest in this blind trust. She must run away ; she must hide 
herself where no familiar eyes could detect her ; and then the 
terror of wandering out into the world, of which she knew 
nothing, made the possibility of going to Arthur a thought 
which brought some comfort with it. She felt so helpless 
now, so unable to fashion the future for herself, that the 
prospect of throwing herself on him had a relief in it which 
was stronger than her pride. As she sat by the pool, anrl 
shuddered at the dark cold water, the hope that he would 
receive her tenderly — that he would care for her and think 
for her — was like a sense of lulling warmth, that made her 
for the moment indifferent to everything else ; and she began 
now to think of nothing but the scheme by which she should 
get away. 

She had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words 
about the coming marriage, which she had heard of from Seth ; 
and when Hetty had read this letter aloud to her uncle, he 
had said, “ I wish Dinah ’ud come again now, for she ’d be a 
comfort to your aunt when you ’re gone. What do you think, 
my wench, o’ going to see her as soon as you can be spared, 
and persuading her to come back wi’ you ? You might hap 


878 


ADAM BEDE. 


pen persuade lier wi’ telling her as her aunt wants her, for all 
she writes o’ not being able to come.” Hetty had not liked 
the thought of going to Snowfield, and felt no longing to see 
Dinah, so she only said, “It’s so far off, uncle.” But now 
she thought this proposed visit would serve as a pretext for 
going away. She would tell her aunt when she got home 
again, that she should like the change of going to Snowfield 
for a week or ten days. And then, when she got to Stoniton, 
where nobody knew her, she would ask for the coach that 
would take her on the way to Windsor. Arthur was at 
Windsor, and she would go to him. 

As soon as Hetty had determined on this scheme, she rose 
from the grassy bank of the pool, took up her basket, and 
went on her way to Treddleston, for she must buy the wed- 
ding things she had come out for, though she would never 
want them. She must be careful not to raise any suspicion 
that she was going to run away. 

Mrs. Poyser was quite agreeably surprised that Hetty 
wished to go and see Dinah, and try to bring her back to stay 
over the wedding. The sooner she went the better, since the 
weather was pleasant now ; and Adam, when he came in the 
evening, said, if Hetty could set off to-morrow, he would 
make time to go with her to Treddleston, and see her safe 
into the Stoniton coach. 

“ I wish I could go with you and take care of you, Hetty/ ; 
he said, the next morning, leaning in at the coach door ; “ but 
you won’t stay much beyond a week — the time ’ull seem 
long.” 

He was looking at her fondly, and his strong hand held hers 
in its grasp. Hetty felt a sense of protection in his presence 
— she was used to it now : if she could have had the past 
undone, and known no other love than her quiet liking for 
Adam ! The tears rose as she gave him the last look. 

“ God bless her for loving me,” said Adam, as he went on 
his way to work again, with Gyp at his heels. 

But Hetty’s tears were not for Adam — not for the anguish 
that would come upon him when he found she was gone from 
him forever. They were for the misery of her own lot, which 


THE HIDDEN DREAD. 


379 


took her away from this brave tender man who offered up his 
whole life to her, and threw her, a poor helpless suppliant, on 
the man who would think it a misfortune that she was obliged 
to cling to him. 

At three o’clock that day, when Hetty was on the coach 
that was to take her, they said, to Leicester — part of the 
long, long way to Windsor — she felt dimly that she might 
be travelling all this weary journey towards the beginning of 
new misery. 

Yet Arthur was at Windsor ; he would surely not be angry 
with her. If he did not mind abtfUiL her as he u^ed &o, he 
had promised to be good to her. 


BOOK V. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE JOURNEY IN HOPE. 

A bong, lonely journey, with sadness in the heart ; away 
from the familiar to the strange : that is a hard and dreary 
thing even to the rich, the strong, the instructed : a hard 
thing, even when we are called by duty, not urged by dread. 

What was it then to Hetty ? With her poor narrow 
thoughts, no longer melting into vague hopes, but pressed 
upon by the chill of definite fear ; repeating again and again 
the same small round of memories — shaping again and again 
the same childish, doubtful images of what was to come — 
seeing nothing in this wide world but the little history of her 
own pleasures and pains ; with so little money in her pocket, 
and the way so long and difficult. Unless she could afford 
always to go in the coaches — and she felt sure she could not, 
for the journey to Stoniton was more expensive than she had 
expected — it was plain that she must trust to carriers’ carts 
or slow wagons; and what a time it would be before she 
could get to the end of her journey ! The burly old coach- 
man from Oakbourne, seeing such a pretty young woman 
among the outside passengers, had invited her to come and sit 
beside him ; and feeling that it became him as a man and a 
coachman to open the dialogue with a joke, he applied him- 
self as soon as they were off the stones to the elaboration of 
one suitable in all respects. After many cuts with his whip 
and glances at Hetty out of the corner of his eye, he lifted his 
lips above the edge of his wrapper and said — * 


THE JOURNEY IN HOPE. 


381 


* He ’s pretty nigh six foot, I ’ll be bound, isna he, now ? ” 

“ Who ? ” said Hetty, rather startled. 

“ Why, the sweetheart as you ’ve left behind, or else him as 
you ’re goin’ arter — which is it ? ” 

Hetty felt her face flushing and then turning pale. She 
thought this coachman must know something about her. He 
must know Adam, and might tell him where she was gone, 
for it is difficult to country people to believe that those who 
make a figure in their own parish are not known everywhere 
else, and it was equally difficult to Hetty to understand that 
chance words could happen to apply closely to her circum- 
stances. She was too frightened to speak. 

“ Hegh, hegh ! ” said the coachman, seeing that his joke was 
not so gratifying as he had expected, “ you munna take it too 
ser’ous ; if he ’s behaved ill, get another. Such a pretty lass 
as you can get a sweetheart any day.” 

Hetty’s fear was allayed by-and-by, when she found that 
the coachman made no further allusion to her personal con- 
cerns ; but it still had the effect of preventing her from ask- 
ing him what were the places on the road to Windsor. She 
told him she was only going a little way out of Stoniton, and 
when she got down at the inn where the coach stopped, she 
hastened away with her basket to another part of the town. 
When she had formed her plan of going to Windsor, she had 
not foreseen any difficulties except that of getting away ; and 
after she had overcome this by proposing the visit to Dinah, 
her thoughts flew to the meeting with Arthur, and the ques- 
tion how he would behave to her — not resting on any proba- 
ble incidents of the journey. She was too entirety ignorant 
of travelling to imagine any of its details, and with all her 
store of money — her three guineas — in her pocket, she 
thought herself amply provided. It was not until she found 
how much it cost her to get to Stoniton that she began to be 
alarmed about the journey, and then, for the first time, she 
felt her ignorance as to the places that must be passed on her 
way. Oppressed with this new alarm, she walked along the 
grim Stoniton streets, and at last turned into a shabby little 
inn, where she hoped to get a cheap lodging for the night 


382 


ADAM BEDE. 


Here she asked the landlord if he could tell her what places 
she must go to, to get to Windsor. 

“Well, I can’t rightly say. Windsor must be pretty nigh 
London, for it ’s where the king lives,” was the answer. 
“ Anyhow, you ’d best go t’ Ashby . next — that ’s south’ard. 
But there ’s as many places from here to London as there ’s 
houses in Stoniton, by what I can make out. I ’ve never been 
no traveller myself. But how comes a lone young woman 
like you, to be thinking o’ taking such a journey as that ? ” 

“ I J m going to my brother — he ’s a soldier at Windsor,” 
fcaid Hetty, frightened at the landlord’s questioning look. “ I 
fcan’t afford to go by the coach ; do you think there ’s a cart 
goes toward Ashby in the morning ? ” 

“ Yes, there may be carts if anybody knowed where they 
started from ; but you might run over the town before you 
found out. You ’d best set off and walk, and trust to summat 
overtaking you.” 

Every word sank like lead on Hetty’s spirits ; she saw the 
journey stretch bit by bit before her now ; even to get to 
Ashby seemed a hard thing : it might take the day, for what 
she knew, and that was nothing to the rest of the journey. 
But it must be done — she must get to Arthur : oh, how she 
yearned to be again with somebody who would care for her ! 
She who had never got up in the morning without the cer- 
tainty of seeing familiar faces, people on whom she had an 
acknowledged claim ; whose farthest journey had been to 
Bosseter on the pillion with her uncle ; whose thoughts had 
always been taking holiday in dreams of pleasure, because all 
the business of her life was managed for her : — this kitten- 
like Hetty, who till a few months ago had never felt any 
other grief than that of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon, 
or being girded at by her aunt for neglecting Totty, must now 
make her toilsome way in loneliness, her peaceful home left 
behind forever, and nothing but a tremulous hope of distant 
refuge before her. Now for the first time, as she lay down 
to-night in the strange hard bed, she felt that her home had 
been a happy one, that her uncle had been very good to her. 
*hat her quiet lot at Hay slope among the things and people 


THE JOURNEY IN HOPE. 


383 


she knew, with her little pride in her one best gown and 
bonnet, and nothing to hide from any one, was what she 
would like to wake up to as a reality, and find that all the 
feverish life she had known besides was a short nightmare. 
She thought of all she had left behind with yearning regret 
for her own sake: her own misery filled her heart: there was 
no room in it for other people’s sorrow. And yet, before the 
cruel letter, Arthur had been so tender and loving : the mem- 
ory of that had still a charm for her, though it was no more 
than a soothing draught that just made pain bearable. For 
Hetty could conceive no other existence for herself in future 
than a hidden one, and a hidden life, even with love, would 
have had no delights for her; still less a life mingled with 
shame. She knew no romances, and had only a feeble share 
in the feelings which are the source of romance, so that well- 
read ladies may find it difficult to understand her state of 
mind. She was too ignorant of everything beyond the simple 
notions and habits in which she had been brought up, to have 
any more definite idea of her probable future than that Arthur 
would take care of her somehow, and shelter her from anger 
and scorn. He would not marry her and make her a lady; 
and apart from that she could think of nothing he could give 
towards which she looked with longing and ambition. 

The next morning she rose early, .and taking only some milk 
and bread for her breakfast, set out to walk on the road towards 
Ashby, under a leaden-colored sky, with a narrowing streak 
of yellow, like a departing hope, on the edge of the horizon. 
Now in her faintness of heart at the length and difficulty of 
her journey, she was most of all afraid of spending her money, 
and becoming so destitute that she would have to ask people’s 
charity; for Hetty had the pride not only of a proud nature 
but of a proud class — the class that pays the most poor-rates, 
and most shudders at the idea of profiting by a poor-rate. It 
had not yet occurred to her that she might get money for her 
locket and earrings which she carried with her, and she ap- 
plied all her small arithmetic and knowledge of prices to cal- 
culating how many meals and how many rides were contained 
in her two guineas, and the odd shillings, which had a melan- 


384 


ADAM BEDE. 


choly look, as if they were the pale ashes of the other bright- 
flaming coin. 

For the first few miles out of Stoniton, she walked on 
bravely, always fixing on some tree or gate or projecting bush 
at the most distant visible point in the road as a goal, and 
feeling a faint joy when she had reached it. But when she 
came to the fourth milestone, the first she had happened to 
notice among the long grass by the roadside, and read that 
she was still only four miles beyond Stoniton, her courage 
sank. She had come only this little way, and yet felt tired, 
and almost hungry again in the keen morning air ; for though 
Hetty was accustomed to much movement and exertion in- 
doors, she was not used to long walks, which produced quite a 
different sort of fatigue from that of household activity. As 
she was looking at the milestone she felt some drops falling 
on her face — it was beginning to rain. Here was a new 
trouble which had not entered into her sad thoughts before ; 
and quite weighed down by this sudden addition to her bur- 
den, she sat down on the step of a stile and began to sob 
hysterically. The beginning of hardship is like the first taste 
of bitter food — it seems for a moment unbearable ; yet, if 
there is nothing else to satisfy our hunger, we take another 
bite and find it possible to go on. When Hetty recovered 
from her burst of weeping, she rallied her fainting courage : 
it was raining, and she must try to get on to a village where 
she might find rest and shelter. Presently, as she walked on 
wearily, she heard the rumbling of heavy wheels behind her ; 
a covered wagon was coming, creeping slowly along with a 
slouching driver cracking his whip beside the horses. She 
waited for it, thinking that if the wagoner were not a very 
sour-looking man, she would ask him to take her up. As the 
wagon approached her, the driver had fallen behind, but 
there was something in the front of the big vehicle which 
encouraged her. At any previous moment in her life she 
would not have noticed it: but now, the new susceptibility 
that suffering had awakened in her caused this object to im- 
press her strongly. It was only a small white-and-liver colored 
spaniel which sat on the front ledge of the wagon, with large 


THE JOURNEY IN HOPE. 


386 


timid eyes, and an incessant trembling in the body, snch as 
you may have seen in some of these small creatures. Hetty 
eared little for animals, as you know, but at this moment she 
felt as if the helpless timid creature had some fellowship with 
her, and without being quite aware of the reason, she was less 
doubtful about speaking to the driver, who now came forward 
— a large ruddy man, with a sack over his shoulders, by way 
of scarf or mantle. 

“ Could you take me up in your wagon, if you ’re going 
towards Ashby ? ” said Hetty. “ 1 ’ll pay you for it.” 

“ Aw,” said the big fellow, with that slowly dawning smile 
which belongs to heavy faces, “ I can take y’ up fawst enough 
wi’out bein’ paid for ’t if you dooant mind lyin’ a bit closish 
a-top o’ the wool-packs. Where do you coom from ? and what 
do you want at Ashby ? ” 

“ 1 come from Stoniton. I ’m going a long way — to 
Windsor.” 

“ What ! arter some service, or what ? ” 

“ Going to my brother — he ’s a soldier there.” 

“Well, I’m going no furder nor Leicester — and fur enough 
too — but I ’ll take you, if you dooant mind being a bit long 
on the road. Th’ hosses wooant feel your weight no more nor 
they feel the little doog there, as I puck up on the road a fort- 
ni’t agoo. He war lost, I b’lieve, an’s been all of a tremble 
iver sin’. Come, gi’ us your basket, an’ come behind and let 
me put y’ in.” 

To lie on the wool-packs, with a cranny left between the 
curtains of the awning to let in the air, was luxury to Hetty 
now, and she half slept away the hours till the driver came to 
ask her if she wanted to get down and have “ some victual ; ” 
he himself was going to eat his dinner at this “ public.” Late 
at night they reached Leicester, and so this second day of 
Hetty’s journey was past. She had spent no money except 
what she had paid for her food, but she felt that this slow 
journeying would be intolerable for her another day, and in 
the morning she found her way to a coach-office to ask about 
the road to Windsor, and see if it would cost her too much 
to go part of the distance by coach again. Yes ! the distance 

w OL. I. 


386 


ADAM BEDE. 


was too great — the coaches were too dear — she must give 
them up ; but the elderly clerk at the office, touched by her 
pretty anxious face, wrote down for her the names of the chief 
places she must pass through. This was the only comfort she 
got in Leicester, for the men stared at her as she went along 
the street, and for the first time in her life Hetty wished no 
one would look at her. She set out walking again ; but this day 
she was fortunate, for she was soon overtaken by a carrier’s 
cart which carried her to Hinckley, and by the help of a return 
chaise, with a drunken postilion, — who frightened her by 
driving like Jehu the son of Nimshi, and shouting hilarious 
remarks at her, twisting himself backwards on his saddle, — 
she was before night in the heart of woody Warwickshire : 
but still almost a hundred miles from Windsor, they told her. 
Oh what a large world it was, and what hard work for her to 
find her way in it ! She went by mistake to Stratford-on- 
Avon, finding Stratford set down in her list of places, and 
then she was told she had come a long way out of the right 
road. It was not till the fifth day that she got to Stony Strat- 
ford. That seems but a slight journey as you look at the 
map, or remember your own pleasant travels to and from the 
meadowy banks of the Avon. But how wearily long it was 
to Hetty ! It seemed to her as if this country of flat fields 
and hedgerows, and dotted houses, and villages, and market- 
towns — all so much alike to her indifferent eyes — must have 
no end, and she must go on wandering among them forever, 
waiting tired at toll-gates for some cart to come, and then 
finding the cart went only a little way — a very little way — 
to the miller’s a mile off perhaps ; and she hated going into 
the public-houses, where she must go to get food and ask 
questions, because there were always men lounging there, who 
stared at her and joked her rudely. Her body was very weary 
too with these days of new fatigue and anxiety ; they had 
made her look more pale and worn than all the time of hidden 
dread she had gone through at home. When at last she 
reached Stony Stratford, her impatience and weariness had be- 
come too strong for her economical caution ; she determined to 
take the coach for the rest of the way, though it should cost her 


THE JOURNEY IN HOPE. 


38T 


all her remaining money. She would need nothing at Windsor 
but to find Arthur. When she had paid the fare for the last 
coach, she had only a shilling; and as she got down at the 
sign of the Green Man in Windsor at twelve o’clock in the 
middle of the seventh day, hungry and faint, the coachman 
came up, and begged her to “remember him.” She put her 
hand in her pocket, and took out the shilling, but the tears 
came with the sense of exhaustion and the thought that she 
was giving away her last means of getting food, which she 
really required before she could go in search of Arthur. As 
she held out the shilling, she lifted up her dark tear-filled 
eyes to the coachman’s face and said, “ Can you give me back 
sixpence ? ” 

“ No, no,” he said, gruffly, “ never mind — put the shilling 
up again.” 

The landlord of the Green Man had stood near enough to 
witness this scene, and he was a man whose abundant feeding 
served to keep his good-nature, as well as his person, in high 
condition. And that lovely tearful face of Hetty’s would have 
found out the sensitive fibre in most men. 

“ Come, young woman, come in,” he said, “ and have a drop 
o’ something ; you ’re pretty well knocked up : I can see 
that.” 

He took her into the bar and said to his wife, “ Here, missis, 
take this young woman into the parlor ; she ’s a little over- 
come,” — for Hetty’s tears were falling fast. They were 
merely hysterical tears : she thought she had no reason for 
weeping now, and was vexed that she was too weak and tired 
to help it. She was at Windsor at last, not far from Arthui 

She looked with eager, hungry eyes at the bread and meat 
and beer that the landlady brought her, and for some minutes 
she forgot everything else in the delicious sensations of satis- 
fying hunger and recovering from exhaustion. The landlady 
sat opposite to her as she ate, and looked at her earnestly. 
No wonder : Hetty had thrown off her bonnet, and her curls 
had fallen down : her face was all the more touching in its 
youth and beauty because of its weary look ; and the good 
woman’s eyes presently wandered to her figure, which in hei 


388 


ADAM BEDE. 


hurried dressing on her journey she had taken no pains to con* 
ceal; moreover, the stranger’s eye detects what the familiar 
unsuspecting eye leaves unnoticed. 

“ Why, you ’re not very fit for travelling,” she said, glancing 
while she spoke at Hetty’s ringless hand. “ Have you come 
far ? ” 

“Yes,” said Hetty, roused by this question to exert more 
self-command, and feeling the better for the food she liaa 
taken. “ I ’ve come a good long way, and it ’s very tiring. 
But I ’m better now. Could you tell me which way to go to 
this place ? ” Here Hetty took from her pocket a bit of pa- 
per : it was the end of Arthur’s letter on which he had writ- 
ten his address. 

While she was speaking, the landlord had come in, and had 
begun to look at her as earnestly as his wife had done. He 
took up the piece of paper which Hetty handed across the 
table, and read the address. 

“ Why, what do you want at this house ? ” he said. It is 
in the nature of innkeepers and all men who have no pressing 
business of their own, to ask as many questions as possible 
before giving any information. 

“ I want to see a gentleman as is there,” said Hetty. 

“ But there ’s no gentleman there,” returned the landlord. 
“ It ’s shut up — been shut up this fortnight. What gentleman 
is it you want ? Perhaps I can let you know where to find 
him.” 

“It’s Captain Donnithorne,” said Hetty, tremulously, her 
heart beginning to beat painfully at this disappointment of 
her hope that she should find Arthur at once. 

“ Captain Donnithorne ? Stop a bit,” said the landlord, 
slowly. “ Was he in the Loamshire Militia ? A tall young 
officer with a fairish skin and reddish whiskers — and had a 
servant by the name o’ Pym ? ” 

“ Oh yes,” said Hetty ; “ you know him — where is he ? ” 

“ A fine sight o’ miles away from here : the Loamshire 
Militia’s gone to Ireland; it’s been gone this fortnight.” 

“Look there ! she’s fainting,” said the landlady, hastening 
to support Hetty, who had lost her miserable consciousness 


389 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR. 

and looked like a beautiful corpse. They carried her to the 
sofa and loosened her dress. 

“ Here ’s a bad business, I suspect,” said the landlord, as he 
brought in some water. 

“ Ah, it ’s plain enough what sort of business it is,” said the 
wife. “ She ’s not a common flaunting dratchell, I can see that. 
She looks like a respectable country girl, and she comes from 
a good way off, to judge by her tongue. She talks something 
like that ostler we had that come from the north : he was as 
honest a fellow as we ever had about the house — they ’re all 
honest folks in the north.” 

“ I never saw a prettier young woman in my life,” said the 
husband. “ She ’s like a pictur in a shop- winder. It goes to 
one’s ’eart to look at her.” 

“ It ’ud have been a good deal better for her if she ’d been 
uglier and had more conduct,” said the landlady, who on any 
charitable construction must have been supposed to have more 
“ conduct ” than beauty. “ But she ’s coming to again. Fetch 
a drop more water.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR. 

Hetty was too ill through the rest of that day for any ques- 
tions to be addressed to her — too ill even to think with any 
distinctness of the evils that were to come. She only felt that 
all her hope was crushed, and that instead of having found a 
refuge she had only reached the borders of a new wilderness 
where no goal lay before her. The sensations of bodily sick- 
ness, in a comfortable bed, and with the tendance of the good- 
natured landlady, made a sort of respite for her ; such a respite 
as there is in the faint weariness which obliges a man to throw 
himself on the sand, instead of toiling onward under the scorch- 
ing sun. 

But when sleep and rest had brought back the strength ne- 
cessary for the keenness of mental suffering, — when she laj 


ADAM BEDE. 


39U 


the next morning looking at the growing light which was like 
a cruel task-master returning to urge from her a fresh round 
of hated hopeless labor, — she began to think what course she 
must take, to remember that all her money was gone, to look 
at the prospect of further wandering among strangers with 
the new clearness shed on it by the experience of her journey 
to Windsor. But which way could she turn ? It was impos- 
sible for her to enter into any service, even if she could obtain 
it : there was nothing but immediate beggary before her. She 
thought of a young woman who had been found against the 
church wall at Hayslope one Sunday, nearly dead with cold and 
hunger — a tiny infant in her arms : the woman was rescued 
and taken to the parish. “ The parish ! ” You can perhaps 
hardly understand the effect of that word on a mind like 
Hetty’s, brought up among people who were somewhat hard 
in their feelings even towards poverty, who lived among the 
fields, and had little pity for want and rags as a cruel inevi- 
table fate such as they sometimes seem in cities, but held 
them a mark of idleness and vice — and it was idleness and 
vice that brought burthens on the parish. To Hetty the 
“ parish” was next to the prison in obloquy ; and to ask any. 
thing of strangers — to beg — lay in the same far-off hideous 
region of intolerable shame that Hetty had all her life thought 
it impossible she could ever come near. But now the remem- 
brance of that wretched woman whom, she had seen herself, 
on her way from church, being carried into Joshua Rann’s, 
came back upon her with the new terrible sense that there 
was very little now to divide her from the same lot. And the 
dread of bodily hardship mingled with the dread of shame ; 
for Hetty had the luxurious nature of a round, soft-coated pet 
animal. 

How she yearned to be back in her safe home again, cherished 
and cared for as she had always been ! Her aunt’s scolding 
about trifles would have been music to her ears now : she longed 
for it : she used to hear it in a time when she had only trifles to 
hide. Could she be the same Hetty that used to make up the but- 
ter in the dairy with the Gueldres roses peeping in at the win- 
dow — she, a runaway whom her friends would not open their 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR. 


391 


doors to again, lying in this strange bed, with the knowledge that 
she had no money to pay for what she received, and must offer 
those strangers some of the clothes in her basket ? It was 
then she thought of her locket and earrings, and seeing her 
pocket lie near, she reached it and spread the contents on the 
bed before her. There were the locket and earrings in the little 
velvet-lined boxes, and with them there was a beautiful silver 
thimble which Adam had bought her, the words “ Remember 1 
me ” making the ornament of the border ; a steel purse, with 
her one shilling in it, and a small red-leather case, fastening 
with a strap. Those beautiful little earrings, with their deli- 
cate pearls and garnet, that she had tried in her ears with 
such longing in the bright sunshine on the 30th of July ! She 
had no longing to put them in her ears now : her head with its 
dark rings of hair lay back languidly on the pillow, and the 
sadness that rested about her brow and eyes was something too 
hard for regretful memory. Yet she put her hands up to her 
ears : it was because there were some thin gold rings in them, 
which were also worth a little money. Yes, she could surely 
get some money for her ornaments : those Arthur had given 
her must have cost a great deal of money. The landlord and 
landlady had been good to her ; perhaps they would help her 
to get the money for these things. 

But this money would not keep her long : what should she 
do when it was gone ? Where should she go ? The horrible 
thought of want and beggary drove her once to think she 
would go back to her uncle and aunt, and ask them to forgive 
her and have pity on her. But she shrank from that idea 
again, as she might have shrunk from scorching metal: she 
could never endure that shame before her uncle and aunt, be 
fore Mary Burge, and the servants at the Chase, and the peo- 
ple at Broxton, and everybody who knew her. They should 
never know what had happened to her. What could she do ? 
She would go away from Windsor — travel again as she had 
done the last week, and get among the flat green fields with the 
High, hedges round them, where nobody could see her or know 
her; and there, perhaps, when there was nothing else she 
could do, she should get courage to drown herself in some 


392 


ADAM BEDE. 


pond like that in the Scantlands. Yes, she would get away 
from Windsor as soon as possible : she did n’t like these people 
at the inn to know about her, to know that she had come to 
look for Captain Donnithorne : she must think of some reason 
to tell them why she had asked for him. 

With this thought she began to put the things back into her 
pocket, meaning to get up and dress before the landlady came 
co her. She had her hand on the red-leather case, when it 
occurred to her that there might be something in this case 
which she had forgotten — something worth selling ; for with- 
out knowing what she should do with her life, she craved the 
means of living as long as possible; and when we desire 
eagerly to find something, we are apt to search for it in hope- 
less places. No, there was nothing but common needles and 
pins, and dried tulip-petals between the paper leaves where 
she had written down her little money-accounts. But on one 
of these leaves there was a name, which, often as she had seen 
it before, now flashed on Hetty’s mind like a newly discovered 
message. The name was — Dinah Morris , Snowfield. There 
was a text above it, written, as well as the name, by Dinah’s 
own hand with a little pencil, one evening that they were sit- 
ting together and Hetty happened to have the red case lying 
open before her. Hetty did not read the text now : she was 
only arrested by the name. Now, for the first time, she re- 
membered without indifference the affectionate kindness Dinah 
had shown her, and those words of Dinah in the bed-chamber 
— that Hetty must think of her as a friend in trouble. Sup 
pose she were to go to Dinah, and ask her to help her ? Dinah 
did not think about things as other people did : she was a inys 
tery to Hetty, but Hetty knew she was always kind. She 
could n’t imagine Dinah’s face turning away from her in dark re- 
proof or scorn, Dinah’s voice willingly speaking ill of her, or re- 
joicing in her misery as a punishment. Dinah did not seem to 
belong to that world of Hetty’s, whose glance she dreaded like 
soorching fire. But even to her Hetty shrank from beseeching 
and confession : she could not prevail on herself to say, “ I will 
go to Dinah ; ’' she only thought of th~t as a possible alterna 
Uve, if she had not courage for death. 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR. 


393 


The good landlady was amazed when she saw Hetty come 
iown-stairs soon after herself, neatly dressed, and looking reso- 
lutely self-possessed. Hetty told her she was quite well this 
morning : she had only been very tired and overcome with her 
journey, for she had come along way to ask about her brother, 
who had run away, and they thought he was gone for a soldier, 
and Captain Donnithorne might know, for he had been very 
kind to her brother once. It was a lame story, and the land- 
lady looked doubtfully at Hetty as she told it ; but there was 
a resolute air of self-reliance about her this morning, so differ- 
ent from the helpless prostration of yesterday, that the land- 
lady hardly knew how to make a remark that might seem like 
prying into other people’s affairs. She only invited her to sit 
down to breakfast with them, and in the course of it Hetty 
brought out her earrings and locket, and asked the landlord if he 
could help her to get money for them: her journey, she said, 
had cost her much more than she expected, and now she had 
no money to get back to her friends, which she wanted to do 
at once. 

It was not the first time the landlady had seen the orna- 
ments, for she had examined the contents of Hetty’s pocket 
yesterday, and she and her husband had discussed the fact of 
a country girl having these beautiful things, with a stronger 
conviction than ever that Hetty had been miserably deluded 
by the fine young officer. 

“Well,” said the landlord, when Hetty had spread the pre- 
cious trifles before him, “ we might take ’em to the jeweller’s 
shop, for there ’s one not far off ; but Lord bless you, they 
wouldn’t give you a quarter o’ what the things are worth. 
And you would n’t like to part with ’em ? ” he added, looking 
at her inquiringly. 

“ Oh, I don’t mind,” said Hetty, hastily, “ so as I can get 
money to go back.” 

“And they might think the things were stolen, as you 
wanted to sell ’em,” he went on; “for it isn’t usual fora 
young woman like you to have fine jew’llery like that.” 

The blood rushed to Hetty’s face with anger. “ I belong to 
respectable folks,” she said ; “I’m not a thief.” 


394 


ADAM BEDE. 


“No, that you aren’t, I’ll be bound/ said the landlady, 
“ and you ’d no call to say that,” looking indignantly at her 
husband. “ The things were gey to her : that ’s plain enough 
to be seen.” 

“ I did n’t mean as I thought so,” said the husband, apolo- 
getically, “ but I said it was what the jeweller might think, 
and so he would n’t be offering much money for ’em.” 

“Well,” said the wife, “suppose you were to advance 
some money on the things yourself, and then if she liked to 
redeem ’em when she got home, she could. But if we heard 
nothing from her after two months, we might do as we liked 
with ’em.” 

I will not say that in this accommodating proposition the 
landlady had no regard whatever to the possible reward of her 
good-nature in the ultimate possession of the locket and ear- 
rings : indeed, the effect they would have in that case on the 
mind of the grocer’s wife had presented itself with remarkable 
vividness to her rapid imagination. The landlord took up 
the ornaments and pushed out his lips in a meditative manner. 
He wished Hetty well, doubtless ; but pray, how many of your 
well-wishers would decline to make a little gain out of you ? 
Your landlady is sincerely affected at parting with you, re- 
spects you highly, and will really rejoice if any one else is 
generous to you ; but at the same time she hands you a bill 
by which she gains as high a percentage as possible. 

“ How much money do you want to get home with, young 
woman ? ” said the well-wisher, at length. 

“ Three guineas,” answered Hetty, fixing on the sum she set 
out with, for want of any other standard, and afraid of asking 
too much. 

“Well, I’ve no objections to advance you three guineas,” 
said the landlord ; “ and if you like to send it me back and get 
the jewellery again, you can, you know : the Green Man is n’t 
going to run away.” 

“ Oh yes, I ’ll be very glad if you ’ll give me that,” said Hetty, 
relieved at the thought that she would not have to go to the 
jeweller’s, and be stared at and questioned. 

a But if you want the things again, you ’ll write before long/ 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR. 395 

said the landlady, “ because when two months are up, we shall 
make up our minds as you don’t want ’em.” 

“ Yes,” said Hetty, indifferently. 

The husband and wife were equally content with this ar- 
rangement. The husband thought, if the ornaments were not 
redeemed, he could make a good thing of it by taking them to 
London and selling them : the wife thought she would coax 
the good man into letting her keep them. And they were 
accommodating Hetty, poor thing : — a pretty, respectable- 
looking young woman, apparently in a sad case. They de- 
clined to take anything for her food and bed : she was quite 
welcome. And at eleven o’clock Hetty said “ Good-by” to 
them, with the same quiet, resolute air she had worn all the 
morning, mounting the coach that was to take her twenty miles 
back along the way she had come. 

There is a strength of self-possession which is the sign that 
the last hope has departed. Despair no more leans on others 
than perfect contentment, and in despair pride ceases to be 
counteracted by the sense of dependence. 

Hetty felt that no one could deliver her from the evils that 
would make life hateful to her ; and no one, she said to her- 
self, should ever know her misery and humiliation. No ; she 
would not confess even to Dinah : she would wander out of 
sight, and drown herself where her body would never be found, 
and no one should know what had become of her. 

When she got off this coach, she began to walk again, and 
take cheap rides in carts, and get cheap meals, going on and 
on without distinct purpose, yet strangely, by some fascination, 
taking the way she had come, though she was determined not 
to go back to her own country. Perhaps it was because she 
had fixed her mind on the grassy Warwickshire fields, with the 
bushy tree-studded hedgerows that made a hiding-place even 
in this leafless season. She went more slowly than she came, 
often getting over the stiles and sitting for hours under the 
hedgerows, looking before her with blank, beautiful eyes ; 
fancying herself at the edge of a hidden pool, low down, like 
that in the Scantlands ; wondering if it were very painful to 
be drowned, and if there would be anything worse after death 


896 


ADAM BEDE. 


than what sne dreaded in life. Keligious doctrines had taken 
no hold on Hetty’s mind: she was one of those numerous 
people who have had godfathers and godmothers, learned their 
catechism, been confirmed, and gone to church every Sunday, 
and yet, for any practical result of strength in life, or trust 
in death, have never appropriated a single Christian idea or 
Christian feeling. You would misunderstand her thoughts 
during these wretched days, if you imagined that they were 
influenced either by religious fears or religious hopes. 

She chose to go to Stratford-on-Avon again, where she had 
gone before by mistake ; for she remembered some grassy fields 
on her former way towards it — fields among which she thought 
she might find just the sort of pool she had in her mind. Yet 
she took care of her money still ; she carried her basket : death 
seemed still a long way off, and life was so strong in her ! She 
craved food and rest — she hastened towards them at the very 
moment she was picturing to herself the bank from which she 
would leap towards death. It was already five days since she 
had left Windsor, for she had wandered about, always avoiding 
speech or questioning looks, and recovering her air of proud 
self-dependence whenever she was under observation, choos- 
ing her decent lodging at night, and dressing herself neatly in 
the morning, and setting off on her way steadily, or remain- 
ing under shelter if it rained, as if she had a happy life to 
cherish. 

And yet, even in her most self-conscious moments, the face 
was sadly different from that which had smiled at itself in the 
old specked glass, or smiled at others when they glanced at it 
admiringly. A hard and even fierce look had come in the 
eyes, though their lashes were as long as ever, and they had 
all their dark brightness. And the cheek was never dimpled 
with smiles now. It was the same rounded, pouting, childish 
prettiness, but with all love and belief in love departed from 
it — the sadder for its beauty, like that wondrous Medusa-face, 
with the passionate, passionless lips. 

At last she was among the fields she had been dreaming of, 
on a long narrow pathway leading towards a wood. If there 
should be a pool in that wood! It would be better hidden 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR. 


397 


than one in the fields. No, it was not a wood, only a wild 
brake, where there had once been gravel-pits, leaving mounds 
and hollows studded with brushwood and small trees. She 
roamed up and down, thinking there was perhaps a pool in 
every hollow before she came to it, till her limbs were weary, 
and she sat down to rest. The afternoon was far advanced, 
and the leaden sky was darkening, as if the sun were setting 
behind it. After a little while Hetty started up again, feeling 
that darkness would soon come on ; and she must put off find- 
ing the pool till to-morrow, and make her way to some shelter 
for the night. She had quite lost her way in the fields, and 
might as well go in one direction as another, for aught she 
knew. She walked through field after field, and no village, no 
house was in sight ; but there , at the corner of this pasture, 
there was a break in the hedges ; the land seemed to dip down 
a little, and two trees leaned towards each other across the 
opening. Hetty’s heart gave a great beat as she thought there 
must be a pool there. She walked towards it heavily over the 
tufted grass, with pale lips and a sense of trembling : it was 
as if the thing were come in spite of herself, instead of being 
the object of her search. 

There it was, black under the darkening sky : no motion, no 
sound near. She set down her basket, and then sank down 
herself on the grass, trembling. The pool had its wintry 
depth now : by the time it got shallow, as she remembered the 
pools did at Hayslope, in the summer, no one could find out 
that it was her body. But then there was her basket — she 
must hide that too: she must throw it into the water — make 
it heavy with stones first, and then throw it in. She got up to 
look about for stones, and soon brought five or six, which she 
laid down beside her basket, and then sat down again. There 
was no need to hurry — there was all the night to drown her- 
self in. She sat leaning her elbow on the basket. She was 
weary, hungry. There were some buns in her basket — three, 
which she had supplied herself with at the place where she 
ate her dinner. She took them out now, and ate them eagerly, 
and then sat still again, looking at the pool. The soothed sen- 
sation that came over her from the satisfaction of her hunger. 


398 


ADAM BEDE. 


and this fixed dreamy attitude, brought on drowsiness, and 
presently her head sank down on her knees. She was fast 
asleep. 

When she awoke it was deep night, and she felt chill. She 
was frightened at this darkness — frightened at the long night 
before her. If she could but throw herself into the water ! 
No, not yet. She began to walk about that she might get 
warm again, as if she would have more resolution then. Oh 
how long the time was in that darkness ! The bright hearth 
and the warmth and the voices of home, — the secure uprising 
and lying down, — the familiar fields, the familiar people, the 
Sundays and holidays with their simple joys of dress and 
feasting, — all the sweets of her young life rushed before her 
now, and she seemed to be stretching her arms towards them 
across a great gulf. She set her teeth when she thought of 
Arthur: she cursed him, without knowing what her cursing 
would do : she wished he too might know desolation, and cold, 
and a life of shame that he dared not end by death. 

The horror of this cold, and darkness, and solitude — out of 
all human reach — became greater every long minute: it 
was almost as if she were dead already, and knew that she was 
dead, and longed to get back to life again. But no : she was 
alive still ; she had not taken the dreadful leap. She felt a 
strange contradictory wretchedness and exultation : wretched- 
ness, that she did not dare to face death ; exultation, that she 
;vas still in life — that she might yet know light and warmth 
tgain. She walked backwards and forwards to warm herself, 
beginning to discern something of the objects around her, as 
her eyes became accustomed to the night : the darker line of 
the hedge, the rapid motion of some living creature — perhaps 
a field-mouse — rushing across the grass. She no longer felt 
as if the darkness hedged her in : she thought she could walk 
back across the field, and get over the stile ; and then, in the 
very next field, she thought she remembered there was a hovel 
of furze near a sheepfold. If she could get into that hovel, 
she would be warmer ; she could pass the night there, for that 
was what Alick did at Hayslope in lambing-time. The thought 
of this hovel brought the energy of a new hope : she took up 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR. 


899 


her basket and walked across the field, but it was some time 
before she got in the right direction for the stile. The exer- 
cise and the occupation of finding the stile were a stimulus to 
her, however, and lightened the horror of the darkness and 
solitude. There were sheep in the next field, and she startled 
a group as she set down her basket and got over the stile ; and 
the sound of their movement comforted her, for it assured her 
that her impression was right: this was the field where she 
had seen the hovel, for it was the field where the sheep were. 
Right on along the path, and she would get to it. She reached 
the opposite gate, and felt her way along its rails, and the rails 
of the slieepfold, till her hand encountered the pricking of the 
gorsy wall. Delicious sensation ! She had found the shelter : 
she groped her way, touching the prickly gorse, to the door, 
and pushed it open. It was an ill-smelling close place, but 
warm, and there was straw on the ground : Hetty sank down 
on the straw with a sense of escape. Tears came — she had 
never shed tears before since she left Windsor — tears and 
sobs of hysterical joy that she had still hold of life, that she 
was still on the familiar earth, with the sheep near her. The 
very consciousness of her own limbs was a delight to her : she 
turned up her sleeves, and kissed her arms with the passionate 
love of life. Soon warmth and weariness lulled her in the 
midst of her sobs, and she fell continually into dozing, fancy- 
ing herself at the brink of the pool again — fancying that she 
had jumped into the water, and then awakening with a start, 
and wondering where she was. But at last deep dreamless 
sleep came ; her head, guarded by her bonnet, found a pillow 
against the gorsy wall ; and the poor soul, driven to and fro 
between two equal terrors, found the one relief that was possi- 
ble to it — the relief of unconsciousness. 

Alas ! that relief seems to end the moment it has begun. It 
seemed to Hetty as if those dozen dreams had only passed into 
another dream — that she was in the hovel, and her aunt was 
standing over her with a candle in her hand. She trembled 
under her aunt’s glance, and opened her eyes. There was no 
candle, but there was light in the hovel — the light of early 
morning through the open door. And there was a face look- 


400 


ADAM BEDE. 


ing down on her ; but it was an unknown face, belonging to 
an elderly man in a smock-frock. 

“ Why, what do you do here, young woman ? ” the man said, 
roughly. 

Hetty trembled still worse under this real fear and shame 
than she had done in her momentary dream under her aunt’s 
glance. She felt that she was like a beggar already — found 
sleeping in that place. But in spite of her trembling, she was 
so eager to account to the man for her presence here, that she 
found words at once. 

“ I lost my way,” she said. “ I ’m travelling — north’ard, 
and I got away from the road into the fields, and was over- 
taken by the dark. Will you tell me the way to the nearest 
village ? ” 

She got up as she was speaking, and put her hands to her 
bonnet to adjust it, and then laid hold of her basket. 

The man looked at her with a slow bovine gaze, without 
giving her any answer, for some seconds. Then he turned 
away and walked towards the door of the hovel, but it was 
not till he got there that he stood still, and, turning his 
shoulder half round towards her, said — 

“ Aw, I can show you the way to Horton, if you like. But 
what do you do gettin’ out o’ the highroad ? ” he added, with 
a tone of gruff reproof. “ Y’ull be gettin’ into mischief, if you 
dooant mind.” 

“ Yes,” said Hetty, “ I won’t do it again. I ’ll keep in the 
road, if you ’ll be so good as show me how to get to it.” 

‘‘Why dooant you keep where there’s finger-poasses an’ 
folks to ax the way on ? ” the man said, still more gruffly. 
“Anybody ’ud think you was a wild woman, an’ look at 
yer.” 

Hetty was frightened at this gruff old man, and still more 
at this last suggestion that she looked like a wild woman. As 
she followed him out of the hovel she thought she would give 
him a sixpence for telling her the way, and then he would not 
suppose she was wild. As he stopped to point out the road to 
her, she put her hand in her pocket to get the sixpence ready, 
and when he was turning away, without saying good-morning, 


THE JOURNEY IN DESPAIR. 401 

she held it out to him and said, “ Thank you ; will you please 
to take something for your trouble ? ” 

He looked slowly at the sixpence, and then said, “ 1 want 
none o’ your money. You ’d better take care on ’t, else you ’ll 
get it stool from yer, if you go trapesin’ about the fields like 
a mad woman a-that-way.” 

The man left her without further speech, and Hetty held 
on her way. Another day had risen, and she must wander 
on. It was no use to think of drowning herself — she could 
not do it, at least while she had money left to buy food, and 
strength to journey on. But the incident on her waking this 
morning heightened her dread of that time when her money 
would be all gone ; she would have to sell her basket and 
clothes then, and she would really look like a beggar or a wild 
woman, as the man had said. The passionate joy in life she 
had felt in the night, after escaping from the brink of the 
black cold death in the pool, was gone now. Life now, by 
the morning light, with the impression of that man’s hard 
wondering look at her, was as full of dread as death : — it was 
worse ; it was a dread to which she felt chained, from which 
she shrank and shrank as she did from the black pool, and yet 
could find no refuge from it. 

She took out her money from her purse, and looked at it •, 
she had still two-and-twenty shillings ; it would serve her for 
many days more, or it would help her to get on faster to 
Stonyshire, within reach of Dinah. The thought of Dinah 
urged itself more strongly now, since the experience of the 
night had driven her shuddering imagination away from the 
pool. If it had been only going to Dinah — if nobody besides 
Dinah would ever know — Hetty could have made up her mind 
to go to her. The soft voice, the pitying eyes, would have 
drawn her. But afterwards the other people must know, and 
she could no more rush on that shame that she could rush 
on death. 

She must wander on and on, and wait for a lower depth of 
despair to give her courage. Perhaps death would come to 
her, for she was getting less and less able to bear the day’s 
weariness. And yet — such is the strange action of our souls, 

VOL. i. 


402 


ADAM BEDE. 


drawing us by a lurking desire towards the very ends we 
dread — Hetty, when she set out again from Norton, asked 
fche straightest road northward towards Stonyshire, and kept 
it all that day. 

Poor wandering Hetty, with the rounded childish face, and 
fche hard unloving despairing soul looking out of it — with the 
narrow heart and narrow thoughts, no room in them for any 
sorrows but her own, and tasting that sorrow with the more 
intense bitterness ! My heart bleeds for her as I see her 
toiling along on her weary feet, or seated in a cart, with her 
eyes fixed vacantly on the road before her, never thinking or 
caring whither it tends, till hunger comes and makes her 
desire that a village may be near. 

What will be the end ? — the end of her objectless wander- 
ing, apart from all love, caring for human beings only through 
her pride, clinging to life only as the hunted wounded brute 
clings to it ? 

God preserve you and me from being the beginners of such 
misery ! 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE QUEST. 

The first ten days after Hetty’s departure passed as quietly 
as any other days with the family at the Hall Farm, and with 
Adam at his daily work. They had expected Hetty to stay 
away a week or ten days at least, perhaps a little longer if 
Dinah came back with her, because there might then be some- 
thing to detain them at Snowfield. But when a fortnight had 
passed they began to feel a little surprise that Hetty did not 
return ; she must surely have found it pleasanter to be with 
Dinah than any one could have supposed. Adam, for his 
part, was getting very impatient to see her, and he resolved 
that, if she did not appear the next day (Saturday), he would 
set out on Sunday morning to fetch her. There was no coach 


THE QUEST. 


403 


on a Sunday ; but by setting out before it was light, and 
perhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would arrive 
pretty early at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next day 
— Dinah too, if she were coming. It was quite time Hetty 
came home, and he would afford to lose his Monday for the 
sake of bringing her. 

His project was quite approved at the Farm when he went 
there on Saturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him em- 
phatically not to come back without Hetty, for she had been 
quite too long away, considering the things she had to get 
ready by the middle of March, and a week was surely enough 
for any one to go out for their health. As for Dinah, Mrs. 
Poyser had small hope of their bringing her, unless they 
could make her believe the fplks at Hayslope were twice as 
miserable as the folks at Snowfield. “ Though,” said Mrs. 
Poyser, by way of conclusion, “ you might tell her she ’s got 
but one aunt left, and she ’s wasted pretty nigh to a shadder ; 
and we shall p’rhaps all be gone twenty mile further off her 
next Michaelmas, and shall die o’ broken hearts among strange 
folks, and leave the children fatherless and motherless.” 

“ Hay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of 
a man perfectly heart-whole, “ it isna so bad as that. Thee ’t 
looking rarely now, and getting flesh every day. But I’d be 
glad for Dinah t’ come, for she ’d help thee wi’ the little uns : 
they took t’ her wonderful.” 

So at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set off. Seth went with 
him the first mile or two, for the thought of Snowfield, and 
the possibility that Dinah might come again, made him rest- 
less, and the walk with Adam in the cold morning air, both in 
their best clothes, helped to give him a sense of Sunday calm. 
It was the last morning in February, with a low gray sky, and 
a slight hoar-frost on the green border of the road and on the 
black hedges. They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet 
hurrying down the hill, and the faint twittering of the early 
birds. For they walked in silence, though with a pleased 
sense of companionship. 

“ Good-by, lad,” said Adam, laying his hand on Seth’s 
shoulder, and looking at him affectionately as they were about 


404 


ADAM BEDE. 


to part. “ I wish thee wast going all the way wi’ me, and as 
happy as I am” 

“ I ’m content, Addy, I ’m content/’ said Seth, cheerfully. 
"I’ll be an old bachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi’ thy 
children.” 

They turned away from each other, and Seth walked leis- 
urely homeward, mentally repeating one of his favorite hymns 
— he was very fond of hymns: — 

“ Dark and cheerless is the morn 
Unaccompanied by thee : 

Joyless is the day’s return 
Till thy mercy’s beams I see : 

Till thou inward light impart, 

Glad my eyes and warm my heart. 

“ Visit, then, this soul of mine, 

Pierce the gloom of sin and grief,— 

Fill me, Radiancy Divine, 

Scatter all my unbelief. 

More and more thyself display, 

Shining to the perfect day.” 

Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the 
Oakbourne road at sunrise that morning must have had a 
pleasant sight in this tall broad-chested man, striding along 
with a carriage as upright and firm as any soldier’s, glancing 
with keen glad eyes at the dark-blue hills as they began to 
show themselves on his way. Seldom in Adam’s life had his 
face been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this 
morning ; and this freedom from care, as is usual with con- 
structive practical minds like his, made him all the more 
observant of the objects round him, and all the more ready to 
gather suggestions from them towards his own favorite plans 
and ingenious contrivances. His happy love — the knowledge 
that his steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty, 
who was so soon to be his — was to his thoughts what the 
sweet morning air was to his sensations : it gave him a con- 
sciousness of well-being that made activity delightful. Every 
now and then there was a rush of more intense feeling towards 
her, which chased away other images than Hetty ; and along 


405 


THE QUEST. 

with that would come a wondering thankfulness that all this 
happiness was given to him — that this life of ours had such 
sweetness in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he 
was perhaps rather impatient of devout words ; and his ten- 
derness lay very close to his reverence, so that the one could 
hardly be stirred without the other. But after feeling had 
welled up and poured itself out in this way, busy thought 
would come back with the greater vigor ; and this morning it 
was intent on schemes by which the roads might be improved 
that were so imperfect all through the country, and on pictur- 
ing all the benefits that might come from the exertions of a 
single country gentleman, if he would set himself to getting 
the roads made good in his own district. 

It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, 
that pretty town within sight of the blue hills, where he break- 
fasted. After this, the country grew barer and barer: no 
more rolling woods, no more wide-branching trees near fre- 
quent homesteads, no more bushy hedgerows ; but gray stone 
walls intersecting the meagre pastures, and dismal wide- 
scattered gray stone houses on broken lands where mines had 
been and were no longer. “A hungry land,” said Adam to 
himself. “ I ’& rather go southward, where they say it ’s as 
flat as a table, than come to live here ; though if Dinah likes 
to live in a country where she can be the most comfort to 
folks, she ’s i’ the right to live o’ this side ; for she must look 
as if she ’d come straight from heaven, like th’ angels in the 
desert, to strengthen them as ha’ got nothing t’ eat.” And 
when at last he came in sight of Snowfield, he thought it looked 
like a town that was “ fellow to the country,” though the 
stream through the valley where the great mill stood gave a 
pleasant greenness to the lower fields. The town lay, grim, 
stony, and unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adam 
did not go forward to it at present, for Seth had told him 
where to find Dinah. It was at a thatched cottage outside the 
town, a little way from the mill — an old cottage, standing side- 
ways towards the road, with a little bit of potato-ground before 
it. Here Dinah lodged with an elderly couple ; and if she and 
Hetty happened to be out, Adam could learn where they werf 


£06 


ADAM BEDE. 


gone, or when they would be at home again. Dinah might be 
out on some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left 
Hetty at home. Adam could not help hoping this, and as he 
recognized the cottage by the roadside before him, there shone 
out in his face that involuntary smile which belongs to the 
expectation of a near joy. 

He hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped 
at the door. It was opened by a very clean old woman, with 
a slow palsied shake of the head. 

“ Is Dinah Morris at home ? ” said Adam. 

“Eh ? . . . no,” said the old woman, looking up at this tall 
stranger with a wonder that made her slower of speech than 
usual. “Will you please to come in?” she added, retiring 
from the door, as if recollecting herself. “ Why, ye ’re brother 
to the young man as come afore, arena ye ? ” 

“Yes,” said Adam, entering. “That was Seth Bede. I’m 
his brother Adam. He told me to give his respects to you 
and your good master.” 

“ Ay, the same t’ him : he was a gracious young man. An’ 
ye feature him, on’y ye ’re darker. Sit ye down i’ th’ arm- 
chair. My man isna come home from meeting.” 

Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking 
old woman with questions, but looking eagerly towards the 
narrow twisting stairs in one corner, for he thought it was 
possible Hetty might have heard his voice, and would come 
down them. 

“ So you ’re come to see Dinah Morris ? ” said the old woman, 
standing opposite i » him. “ An’ you didna know she was away 
from home, then ? ” 

“No,” said Adam, “but I thought it likely she might be 
away, seeing as it’s Sunday. But the other young woman — 
is she at home, or gone along with Dinah ? ” 

The old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air. 

“Gone along wi’ her?” she said. “Eh, 'Dinah’s gone to 
Leeds, a big town ye may ha’ heared on, where there’s a 
many o’ the Lord’s people. She ’s been gone sin’ Friday was 
a fortnight; they sent her the money for her journey. You 
may see her room here,” she went on, opening a door, and not 


THE QUEST. 


407 


noticing the effect of her words on Adam. He rose and foh 
lowed her, and darted an eager glance into the little room, 
with its narrow bed, the portrait of Wesley on the wall, and 
the few books lying on the large Bible. He had had an irra- 
tional hope that Hetty might be there. He could not speak 
in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty ; an 
undefined fear had seized him — something had happened to 
Hetty on the journey. Still the old woman was so slow of 
speech and apprehension, that Hetty might be at Snowfield 
after all. 

“It’s a pity ye didna know,” she said. “Have ye come 
from your own country o’ purpose to see her ? ” 

“ But Hetty — Hetty Sorrel,” said Adam, abruptly ; “ where 
is she ? ” 

“ I know nobody by that name,” said the old woman, won- 
deringly. “Is it anybody ye ’ve heared on at Snowfield ? ” 

“ Did there come no young woman here — very young and 
pretty — Friday was a fortnight, to see Dinah Morris ? ” 

“ Nay ; I ’n seen no young woman.” 

“Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, 
with dark eyes and dark curly hair, and a red cloak on, and a 
basket on her arm ? You could n’t forget her if you saw her.” 

“ Nay ; Friday was a fortnight — it was the day as Dinah 
went away — there come nobody. There ’s ne’er been nobody 
asking for her till you come, for the folks about know as she ’s 
gone. Eh dear, eh dear, is there summat the matter ? ” 

The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam’s 
face. But he was not stunned or confounded : he was thinking 
eagerly where he could inquire about Hetty. 

“Yes; a young woman started from our country to se^ 
Dinah, Friday was a fortnight. I came to fetch her back. 
I’m afraid something has happened to her. I can’t stop. 
Good-by.” 

He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed 
him to the gate, watching him sadly with her shaking head, as 
he almost ran towards the town. He was going to inquire at 
the place where the Oakbourne coach stopped. 

No ! no young woman like Hetty had been seen there, rjad 


408 


ADAM BEDE. 


any accident happened to the coach a fortnight ago ? No. 
And there was no coach to take him back to Oakbourne that day. 
Well, he would walk : he could n’t stay here, in wretched in- 
action. But the innkeeper, seeing that Adam was in great 
anxiety, and entering into this new incident with the eager- 
ness of a man who passes a great deal of time with his hands 
in his pockets looking into an obstinately monotonous street, 
offered to take him back to Oakbourne in his own “ taxed cart ” 
this very evening. It was not five o’clock ; there was plenty 
of time for Adam to take a meal, and yet to get to Oakbourne 
before ten o’clock. The innkeeper declared that he really 
wanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as well go to-night ; he 
should have all Monday before him then. Adam, after mak- 
ing an ineffectual attempt to eat, put the food in his pocket, 
and, drinking a draught of ale, declared himself ready to 
set off. As they approached the cottage, it occurred to him 
that he would do well to learn from the old woman where 
Dinah was to be found in Leeds : if there was trouble at the 
Hall Farm — he only half admitted the foreboding that there 
would be — the Poysers might like to send for Dinah. But 
Dinah had not left any address, and the old woman, whose 
memory for names was infirm, could not recall the name of 
the “ blessed woman ” who was Dinah’s chief friend in the 
Society at Leeds. 

During that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was 
time for all the conjectures of importunate fear and struggling 
hope. In the very first shock of discovering that Hetty had 
not been to Snowfield, the thought of Arthur had darted through 
Adam like a sharp pang : but he tried for some time to ward 
off its return by busying himself with modes of accounting for 
the alarming fact, quite apart from that intolerable thought. 
Some accident had happened. Hetty had, by some strange 
chance, got into a wrong vehicle from Oakbourne : she had 
been taken ill, and did not want to frighten them by letting 
them know. But this frail fence of vague improbabilities was 
soon hurled down by a rush of distinct agonizing fears. Hetty 
had been deceiving herself in thinking that she could love 
and marry him : she had been loving Arthur all the while : and 



Oakburn Market Place, (Ashbourne) 


























THE QUEST. 


409 


now, in "her desperation at the nearness of their marriage, she 
had run away. And she was gone to him. The old indigna- 
tion and jealousy rose again, and prompted the suspicion that 
Arthur had been dealing falsely — had written to Hetty — had 
tempted her to come to him — being unwilling, after all, that 
she should belong to another man besides himself. Perhaps 
the whole thing had been contrived by him, and he had given 
her directions how to follow him to Ireland : for Adam knew 
that Arthur had been gone thither three weeks ago, having 
recently learnt it at the Chase. Every sad look of Hetty’s, 
since she had been engaged to Adam, returned upon him now 
with all the exaggeration of painful retrospect. He had been 
foolishly sanguine and confident. The poor thing had n’t per- 
haps known her own mind for a long while ; had thought 
that she could forget Arthur; had been momentarily drawn 
towards the man who offered her a protecting, faithful love. 
He could n’t bear to blame her : she never meant to cause him 
this dreadful pain. The blame lay with that man who had 
selfishly played with her heart — had perhaps even deliber- 
ately lured her away. 

At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered such 
a young woman as Adam described getting out of the Treddles- 
ton coach more than a fortnight ago — was n’t likely to forget 
such a pretty lass as that in a hurry — was sure she had not gone 
on by the Buxton coach that went through Snowfield, but had 
lost sight of her while he went away with the horses, and had 
never set eyes on her again. Adam then went straight to the 
house from which the Stoniton coach started : Stoniton was the 
most obvious place for Hetty to go to first, whatever might be her 
destination, for she would hardly venture on any but the chief 
coach-roads. She had been noticed here too, and was remem- 
bered to have sat on the box by the coachman ; but the coach- 
man could not be seen, for another man had been driving on 
that road in his stead the last three or four days : he could 
probably be seen at Stoniton, through inquiry at the inn where 
the coach put up. So the anxious heart-stricken Adam must 
of necessity wait and try to rest till morning — nay, till eleven, 
o’clock, when the coach started. 


410 


ADAM BEDE. 


At Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman 
who had driven Hetty would not be in the town again till 
night. When he did come he remembered Hetty well, and re- 
membered his own joke addressed to her, quoting it many 
times to Adam, and observing with equal frequency that he 
thought there was something more than common, because 
Hetty had not laughed when he joked her. But he declared, 
as the people had done at the inn, that he had lost sight of 
Hetty directly she got down. Part of the next morning was 
consumed in inquiries at every house in the town from which 
a coach started — (all in vain ; for you know Hetty did not 
start from Stoniton by coach, but on foot in the gray morning) 
— and then in walking out to the first toll-gates on the differ- 
ent lines of road, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollec- 
tion of her there. No, she was not to be traced any farther ; 
and the next hard task for Adam was to go home, and carry 
the wretched tidings to the Hall Farm. As to what he should 
do beyond that, he had come to two distinct resolutions amidst 
the tumult of thought and feeling which was going on within 
him while he went to and fro. He would not mention what 
he knew of Arthur Donnithorne’s behavior to Hetty till there 
was a clear necessity for it : it was still possible Hetty might 
come back, and the disclosure might be an injury or an offence 
to her. And as soon as he had been home, and done what was 
necessary there to prepare for his further absence, he would 
start off to Ireland : if he found no trace of Hetty on the road, 
he would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne, and make himself 
certain how far he was acquainted with her movements. Sev- 
eral times the thought occurred to him that he would consult 
Mr. Irwine ; but that would be useless unless he told him all, 
and so betrayed the secret about Arthur. It seems strange 
that Adam, in the incessant occupation of his mind about 
Hetty, should never have alighted on the probability that 
she had gone to Windsor, ignorant that Arthur was no longer 
there. Perhaps the reason was, that he could not conceive 
Hetty’s throwing herself on Arthur uncalled ; he imagined no 
cause that could have driven her to such a step, after that let- 
ter written in August. There were but two alternatives in his 


THE QUEST. 


•±11 


mind : either Arthur had written to her again and enticed her 
away, or she had simply fled from her approaching marriage 
with himself, because she found, after all, she could not love 
him well enough, and yet was afraid of her friends’ anger if 
she retracted. 

With this last determination on his mind, of going straight 
to Arthur, the thought that he had spent two days in inquiries 
which had proved to be almost useless, was torturing to Adam ; 
and yet, since he would not tell the Poysers his conviction as 
to where Hetty was gone, or his intention to follow her thither, 
he must be able to say to them that he had traced her as far 
as possible. 

It was after twelve o’clock on Tuesday night when Adam 
reached Treddleston ; and, unwilling to disturb his mother and 
Seth, and also to encounter their questions at that hour, he 
threw himself without undressing on a bed at the “ Wagon 
Overthrown,” and slept hard from pure weariness. Hot more 
than four hours, however ; for before five o’clock he set out on 
his way home in the faint morning twilight. He always kept 
a key of the workshop door in his pocket, so that he could 
let himself in ; and he wished to enter without awaking his 
mother, for he was anxious to avoid telling her the new trouble 
himself by seeing Seth first, and asking him to tell her when 
it should be necessary. He walked gently along the yard, and 
turned the key gently in the door ; but, as he expected, Gyp, 
who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsided 
when he saw Adam, holding up his finger at him to impose 
silence ; and in his dumb, tailless joy he must content himself 
with rubbing his body against his master’s legs. 

Adam was too heart-sick to take notice of Gyp’s fondling. 
He threw himself on the bench, and stared dully at the wood 
and the signs of work around him, wondering if he should ever 
come to feel pleasure in them again ; while Gyp, dimly aware 
that there was something wrong with his master, laid his rough 
gray head on Adam’s knee, and wrinkled his brows to look up 
at him. Hitherto, since Sunday afternoon, Adam had been 
constantly among strange people and in strange places, having 
no associations with the details of ins daily life; and now that 


ADAM BEDE. 


112 

by the light of this new morning he was come back to his 
home, and surrounded by the familiar objects that seemed Mr 
ever robbed of their charm, the reality — the hard, inevitable 
reality — of his troubles pressed upon him with a new weight 
Eight before him was an unfinished chest of drawers, wliie.n 
he had been making in spare moments for Hetty’s use, when 
his home should be hers. 

Seth had not heard Adam’s entrance, but he had been roused 
by Gyp’s bark, and Adam heard him moving about in the room 
above, dressing himself. Seth’s first thoughts were about Ms 
brother: he would come home to-day, surely, for the business 
would be wanting him sadly by to-morrow, but it was pleasant 
to think he had had a longer holiday than he had expected. 
And would Dinah come too ? Seth felt that that was the 
greatest happiness he could look forward to for himself, though 
he had no hope left that she would ever love him well enough 
to marry him ; but he had often said to himself, it was better 
to be Dinah’s friend and brother than any other woman’s hus- 
band. If he could but be always near her, instead of living so 
far off ! 

He came down-stairs and opened the inner door leading from 
the kitchen into the workshop, intending to let out Gyp ; bn f 
he stood still in the doorway, smitten with a sudden shock 
at the sight of Adam seated listlessly on the bench, pale, um 
washed, with sunken blank eyes, almost like a drunkard in the 
morning. But Seth felt in an instant what the marks meant : 
not drunkenness, but some great calamity. Adam looked 
up at him without speaking, and Seth moved forward towards 
the bench, himself trembling so that speech did not come 
readily. 

“ God have mercy on us, Addy,” he said, in a low voice, sit- 
ting down on the bench beside Adam, “ what is it ? ” 

Adam was unable to speak : the strong man, accustomed to 
suppress the signs of sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a 
child’s at this first approach of sympathy. He fell on Seth’s 
neck and sobbed. 

Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his rec- 
ollections of their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before- 


THE QUEST. 


413 


“ Is it death, Adam ? Is she dead ? ” he asked, in a low 
tone, when Adam raised his head and was recovering himself. 

“No, lad; but she’s gone — gone away from us. She’s 
never been to Snowfield. Dinah ’s been gone to Leeds ever 
since last Friday was a fortnight, the very day Hetty set out. 
I can’t find out where she went after she got to Stoniton.” 

Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing 
that could suggest to him a reason for Hetty’s going away. 

“ Hast any notion what she ’s done it for ? ” he said, at 
last. 

“ She can’t ha’ loved me : she did n’t like our marriage when 
it came nigh — that must be it,” said Adam. He had deter- 
mined to mention no further reason. 

“ I hear mother stirring,” said Seth. “ Must we tell her ? ” 

“ No, not yet,” said Adam, rising from the bench, and push- 
ing the hair from his face, as if he wanted to rouse himself. 
“I can’t have her told yet; and I must set out on another jour- 
ney directly, after I ’ve been to the village and th’ Hall Farm. 
I can ’t tell thee where I ’m going, and thee must say to her 
I ’m gone on business as nobody is to know anything about. I ’ll 
go and wash myself now.” Adam moved towards the door of 
the workshop, but after a step or two he turned round, and, 
meeting Seth’s eyes with a calm sad glance, he said, “ I must 
take all the money out o’ the tin box, lad ; but if anything 
happens to me, all the rest ’ll be thine, to take care o’ mother 
with.” 

Seth was pale and trembling : he felt there was some terrible 
secret under all this. “ Brother,” he said, faintly — he never 
called Adam “ brother ” except in solemn moments — “I don’t 
believe you’ll do anything as you can’t ask God’s blessing 
on.” 

“ Nay, lad, ” said Adam, “ don’t be afraid. I ’m for doing 
nought but what ’s a man’s duty.” 

The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, 
she would only distress him by words, half of blundering affec- 
tion, half of irrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to 
be his wife as she had always foreseen, brought back some of 
his habitual firmness and self-command. He had felt ill on 


ADAM: BEDE. 


5:14 

his journey home — he told her when she came down, — had 
stayed all night at Treddleston for that reason ; and a bad 
headache, that still hung about him this morning, accounted 
foi his paleness and heavy eyes. 

He determined to go to the village, in the first place ; attend 
to his business for an hour, and give notice to Burge of his 
being obliged to go on a journey, which he must beg him not 
to mention to any one ; for he wished to avoid going to the 
Hall Farm near breakfast-time, when the children and ser- 
vants would be in the house-place, and there must be exclama- 
tions in their hearing about his having returned without Hetty. 
He waited until the clock struck nine before he left the work- 
yard at the village, and set off, through the fields, towards the 
Farm. It was an immense relief to him, as he came near the 
Home Close, to see Mr. Poyser advancing towards him, for this 
would spare him the pain of going to the house. Mr. Poyser 
was walking briskly this March morning, with a sense of Spring 
business on his mind : he was going to cast the master’s eye 
on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying his spud as a use- 
ful companion by the way. His surprise was great when he 
caught sight of Adam, but he was not a man given to presenti- 
ments of evil. 

“ Why, Adam, lad, is ’t you ? Have ye been all this time 
away, and not brought the lasses baok, after all ? Where are 
they?” 

“No, I’ve not brought ’em,” said Adam, turning round, to 
indicate that he wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser. 

“ Why,” said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, 
“ye look bad. Is there anything happened ? ” 

“Yes,” said Adam, heavily. “A sad thing’s happened. I 
didna find Hetty at Snowfield.” 

Mr. Poyser’s good-natured face showed signs of troubled as- 
tonishment. “ Not find her ? What ’s happened to her ? ” he 
said, his thoughts flying at once to bodily accident. 

“ That I can’t tell, whether anything ’s happened to her. She 
never went to Snowfield — she took the coach to Stoniton, but I 
can’t learn nothing of her after she got down from the Stoni- 
ton coach.” 


415 


THE QUEST. 

“Why, you donna mean she’s run away?” said Martin, 
standing still, so puzzled and bewildered that the fact did not 
yet make itself felt as a trouble by him. 

“ She must ha’ done,” said Adam. “ She did n’t like our mar- 
riage when it came to the point — that must be it. She ’d mis- 
took her feelings.” 

Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground, 
and rooting up the grass with his spud, without knowing what 
he was doing. His usual slowness was always trebled when 
the subject of speech was painful. At last he looked up, right 
in Adam’s face, saying — 

“ Then she didna deserve t’ ha’ ye, my lad. An’ I feel i’ 
fault myself, for she was my niece, and T vas allays hot for 
her marr’ing ye. There ’s no amends I can make ye, lad — the 
more ’s the pity : it ’s a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt.” 

Adam could say nothing ; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his 
walk for a little while, went on : — 

“I ’ll be bound she ’s gone after trying to get a lady’s-maid’s 
place, for she ’d got that in her head half a year ago, and wanted 
me to gi’ my consent. But I’d thought better on her,” he 
added, shaking his head slowly and sadly — “ I ’d thought bet- 
ter on her, nor to look for this, after she ’d gi’en y’ her word, 
an’ everything been got ready.” 

Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this suppo- 
sition in Mr. Poyser, and he even tried to believe mat it might 
possibly be true. He had no warrant for the certainty that she 
was gone to Arthur. 

“ It was better it should be so,” he said, as quietly as he could, 
“ if she felt she could n’t like me for a husband. Better run 
away before than repent after. I hope you won’t look harshly 
on her if she comes back, as she may do if she finds it hard to 
get on away from home.” 

“ I canna look on her as I ’ve done before,” said Martin, de- 
cisively. “ She ’s acted bad by you, and by all of us. But I ’ll 
not turn my back on her : she ’s but a young un, and it ’s the 
first harm I ’ve knowed on her. It ’ll be a hard job for me to 
tell her aunt. Why didna Dinah come back wi’ ye ? — she ’d 
ha.’ helped to pacify her aunt a bit.” 


116 


ADAM BEl^. 


“ Dinah was n’t at Snowfield. She ’s been gone to Leeds this 
fortnight ; and I could n’t learn from th’ old woman any direc- 
tion where she is at Leeds, else I should ha’ brought it you.’' 

She ’d a deal better be staying wi’ her own kin,” said Mr. 
Poyser, indignantly, “ than going preaching among strange folks 
a»that’n.” 

“ I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser,” said Adam, “ for I ’ve 
a deal to see to.” 

“Ay, you’d best be after your business, and I must tell the 
missis when I go home. It ’s a hard job.” 

“ But,” said Adam, “ I beg particular, you’ll keep what’s hap- 
pened quiet for a week or two. I ’ve not told my mother yet, 
and there ’s no knowing how things may turn out.” 

“Ay, ay ; least said, soonest mended. We ’n no need to say 
why the match is broke off, an’ we may hear of her after a bit. 
Shake hands wi’ me, lad : I wish I could make thee amends.” 

There was something in Martin Poyser’s throat at that mo- 
ment which caused him to bring out those scanty words in 
rather a broken fashion. Yet Adam knew what they meant 
all the better ; and the two honest men grasped each other’s 
hard hands in mutual understanding. 

There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. 
He had told Seth to go to the Chase, and leave a message foi 
the Squire, saying that Adam Bede had been obliged to start 
off suddenly on a journey, — and to say as much, and no more, 
to any one else who made inquiries about him. If the Poysers 
learned that he was gone away again, Adam knew they would 
infer that he was gone in search of Hetty. 

He had intended to go right on his way from the Hall Farm ; 
but now the impulse which had frequently visited him before — 
to go to Mr. Irwine, and make a confidant of him — recurred 
with the new force which belongs to a last opportunity. He 
was about to start on a long journey — a difficult one — by sea 
— and no soul would know where he was gone. If anything hap- 
pened to him ? or, if he absolutely needed help in any matter 
concerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine was to be trusted; and the 
feeling which made Adam shrink from telling anything which 
was her secret, must give way before the need there was that 


THE TIDINGS. 


417 


she should have some one else besides himself, who would be 
prepared to defend her in the worst extremity. Towards 
Arthur, even though he might have incurred no new guilt, 
Adam felt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hetty’s 
interest called on him to speak. 

“ I must do it,” said Adam, when these thoughts, which had 
spread themselves through hours of his sad journeying, now 
rushed upon him in an instant, like a wave that had been 
slowly gathering ; “ it ’s the right thing. I can’t stand alone 
in this way any longer.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE TIDINGS. 

Adam turned Ms face towards Broxton and walked with 
his swiftest stride, looking at his watch with the fear that 
Mr. Irwine might be gone out — hunting, perhaps. The fear 
and haste together produced a state of strong excitement be- 
fore he reached the Rectory gate ; and outside it he saw the 
deep marks of a recent hoof on the gravel. 

But the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from 
it ; and though there was a horse against the stable door, it 
was not Mr. Irwine’s : it had evidently had a journey this 
morning, and must belong to some one who had come on busi- 
ness. Mr. Irwine was at home, then ; but Adam could hardly 
find breath and calmness to tell Carroll that he wanted to 
speak to the Rector. The double suffering of certain and un- 
certain sorrow had begun to shake the strong man. The but- 
ler looked at him wonderingly, as he threw himself on a bench 
in the passage and stared absently at the clock on the opposite 
wall: the master had somebody with him, he said, but he 
heard the study door open — the stranger seemed to be com- 
ing out, and as Adam was in a hurry, he would let the master 
know at once. 

Adam sat looking at the clock: the minute-hand was bur 

''OL. I. 


418 


ADAM BEDE. 


rying along the last five minutes to ten, with a loud hard in- 
different tick, and Adam watched the movement and listened 
to the sound as if he had had some reason for doing so. In 
our times of bitter suffering, there are almost always these 
pauses, when our consciousness is benumbed to everything 
but some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy 
came to give us rest from the memory and the dread which 
refuse to leave us in our sleep. 

Carroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his 
burthen. He was to go into the study immediately. “ I can’t 
think what that strange person ’s come about,” the butler added, 
from mere incontinence of remark, as he preceded Adam to 
the door, “he’s gone i’ the dining-room. And master looks 
unaccountable — as if he was frightened.” Adam took no 
notice of the words : he could not care about other people’s 
business. But when he entered the study and looked in Mr. 
Irwine’s face, he felt in an instant that there was a new ex- 
pression in it, strangely different from the warm friendliness 
it had always worn for him before. A letter lay open on the 
table, and Mr. Irwine’s hand was on it ; but the changed 
glance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to preoc- 
cupation with some disagreeable business, for he was looking 
eagerly towards the door, as if Adam’s entrance were a matter 
of poignant anxiety to him. 

“ You want to speak to me, Adam,” he said, in that low con- 
strainedly quiet tone which a man uses when he is determined 
to suppress agitation. “Sit down here.” He pointed to a 
chair just opposite to him, at no more than a yard’s distance 
from his own, and Adam sat down with a sense that this cold 
manner of Mr. Irwine’s gave an additional unexpected diffi- 
culty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made up his 
mind to a measure, he was not the man to renounce it for any 
but imperative reasons. 

“ I come to you, sir,” he said, “ as the gentleman I look up 
to most of anybody. I ’ve something very painful to tell you 
— something as it ’ll pain you to hear as well as me to tell. 
But if I speak o’ the wrong other people have done, you ’ll see 
I did n’t speak till I ’d good reason.” 


THE TIDINGS. 419 

Mr. Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather tremm 
lously — 

“ You was t’ ha’ married me and Hetty Sorrel, you know, 
sir, o’ the 15th o’ this month. I thought she loved me, and 
I was th’ happiest man i’ the parish. But a dreadful blow ’a 
come upon me.” 

Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, 
but then, determined to control himself, walked to the window 
and looked out. 

“ She ’s gone away, sir, and we don’t know where. She 
said she was going to Snowfield o’ Friday was a fortnight, and 
I went last Sunday to fetch her back ; but she ’d never been 
there, and she took the coach to Stoniton, and beyond that I 
can’t trace her. But now I ’m going a long journey to look 
for her, and I can’t trust t’ anybody but you where I ’m 
going.” 

Mr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down. 

“ Have you no idea of the reason why she went away ? ” he 
said. 

“ It ’s plain enough she did n’t want to marry me, sir,” said 
Adam. “ She did n’t like it when it came so near. But that 
is n’t all, I doubt. There ’s something else I must tell you, 
sir. There ’s somebody else concerned besides me.” 

A gleam of something — it was almost like relief or joy — 
came across the eager anxiety of Mr. Irwine’s face at that 
moment. Adam was looking on the ground, and paused a 
little ; the next words were hard to speak. But when he 
went on, he lifted up his head and looked straight at Mr. 
Irwine. He would do the thing he had resolved to do, without 
flinching. 

“ You know who ’s the man I ’ve reckoned my greatest 
friend,” he said, “ and used to be proud to think as I should 
pass my life i’ working for him, and had felt so ever since we 
were lads — ” 

Mr. Irwine, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped 
Adam’s arm, which lay on the table, and, clutching it tightly 
like a man in pain, said, with pale lips and a low hurried 
voice — 


420 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ No, Adam, no — don’t say it, for God’s sake ! ” 

Adam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine’s feeling, re* 
pented of the words that had passed his lips, and sat in dis- 
tressed silence. The grasp on his arm gradually relaxed, and 
Mr. Irwine threw himself back in his chair, saying, “ Go on 

— I must know it.” 

“That man played with Hetty’s feelings, and behaved to 
her as he ’d no right to do to a girl in her station o’ life — 
made her presents, and used to go and meet her out a-walking : 
I found it out only two days before he went away — found 
him a-kissing her as they were parting in the Grove. There ’d 
been nothing said between me and Hetty then, though I ’d 
loved her for a long while, and she knew it. But I reproached 
him with his wrong actions, and words and blows passed 
between us ; and he said solemnly to me, after that, as it had 
been all nonsense, and no more than a bit o’ flirting. But I 
made him write a letter to tell Hetty he ’d meant nothing ; 
for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as I had n’t 
understood at the time, as he ’d got hold of her heart, and I 
thought she ’d belike go on thinking of him, and never come 
to love another man as wanted to marry her. And I gave her 
the letter, and she seemed to bear it all after a while better 
than I ’d expected . . . and she behaved kinder and kinder 
to me ... I dare say she did n’t know her own feelings then, 
poor thing, and they came back upon her when it was too 
late ... I don’t want to blame her ... I can’t think as she 
meant to deceive me. But I was encouraged to think she 
loved me, and — you know the rest, sir. But it ’s on my mind 
as he ’s been false to me, and ’ticed her away, and she ’s gone 
to him — and I ’m going now to see ; for I can never go to 
work again till I know what ’s become of her.” 

During Adam’s narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to re- 
cover his self-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that 
crowded upon him. It was a bitter remembrance to him now 

— that morning when Arthur breakfasted with him, and seemed 
as if he were on the verge of a confession. It was plain enough 
now what he had wanted to confess. And if their words had 
taken another turn ... if he himself had been less fastidious 


THE TIDINGS. 


421 


about intruding on another man’s secrets ... it was cruel to 
think how thin a film had shut out rescue from all this guilt 
and misery. He saw the whole history now by that terrible 
illumination which the present sheds back upon the past. 
But every other feeling as it rushed upon him was thrown 
into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity, for the man who 
sat before him, — already so bruised, going forth with sad 
blind resignedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real one was 
close upon him, too far beyond the range of common trial for 
him ever to have feared it. His own agitation was quelled 
by a certain awe that comes over us in the presence of a great 
anguish; for the anguish he must inflict on Adam was already 
present to him. Again he put his hand on the arm that lay on 
the table, but very gently this time, as he said solemnly — 

“ Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in 
your life. You can bear sorrow manfully, as well as act man- 
fully : God requires both tasks at our hands. And there is a 
heavier sorrow coming upon you than any you have yet known. 
But you are not guilty — you have not the worst of all sorrows. 
God help him who has ! ” 

The two pale faces looked at each other ; in Adam’s there 
was trembling suspense, in Mr. Irwine’s hesitating, shrinking 
pity. But he went on. 

“ I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone 
to him. She is in Stonyshire — at Stoniton.” 

Adam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could 
have leaped to her that moment. But Mr. Irwine laid hold 
of his arm again, and said, persuasively, “Wait, Adam, wait.” 
So he sat down. 

“ She is in a very unhappy position — one which will make 
it worse for you to find her, my poor friend, than to have lost 
her forever.” 

Adam’s lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They 
moved again, and he whispered, “ Tell me.” 

“ She has been arrested ... she is in prison.” 

It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit 
of resistance into Adam. The blood rushed to his face, and 
he said, loudly and sharply-^ 


422 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ For what ? 99 

“ For a great crime — the murder of her child.” 

“It can't be!" Adam almost shouted, starting up from his 
chair, and making a stride towards the door; but he turned 
round again, setting his back against the book-case, and look- 
i g fiercely at Mr. Irwine. “ It is n’t possible. She never 
had a child. She can’t be guilty. Who says it ? ” 

“ God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope 
she is.” 

“ But who says she is guilty ? ” said Adam, violently. “Tell 
me everything.” 

“ Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was 
taken, and the constable who arrested her is in the dining- 
room. She will not confess her name or where she comes 
from ; but I fear, I fear, there can be no doubt it is Hetty. 
The description of her person corresponds, only that she is 
said to look very pale and ill. She had a small red-leather 
pocket-book in her pocket with two names written in it — one 
at the beginning, 1 Hetty Sorrel, Hayslope/ and the other near 
the end, e Dinah Morris, Snowfield.’ She will not say which 
is her own name — she denies everything, and will answer no 
questions ; and application has been made to me, as a magis- 
trate, that I may take measures for identifying her, for it was 
thought probable that the name which stands first is her own 
name.” 

“But what proof have they got against her, if it is Hetty ? ” 
said Adam, still violently, with an effort that seemed to shake 
his whole frame. “ I ’ll not believe it. It could n’t ha’ been, 
and none of us know it.” 

“ Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to com- 
mit the crime; but we have room to hope that she did not 
really commit it. Try and read that letter, Adam.” 

Adam took the letter between his shaking hands, and tried 
to fix his eyes steadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile went out 
to give some orders. When he came back, Adam’s eyes were 
still on the first page — he could n’t read — he could not put 
the words together, and make out what they meant. He threw 
it down at last, and clenched his fist. 


THE TIDINGS. 


423 


11 It ’s his doing,” he said ; “ if there ’s been any crime, it ’s 
at his door, not at hers. He taught her to deceive — he deceived 
me first. Let ’em put him on his trial — let him stand in court 
beside her, and I’ll tell ’em how he got hold of her heart, 
and ’ticed her t’ evil, and then lied to me. Is he to go free, 
while they lay all the punishment on her ... so weak and 
young ? ” 

The image called up by these last words gave a new direc- 
tion to poor Adam’s maddened feelings. He was silent, 
looking at the corner of the room as if he saw something 
there. Then he burst out again, in a tone of appealing 
anguish — 

“ I can't bear it ... 0 God, it ’s too hard to lay upon me — 
it ’s too hard to think she ’s wicked.” 

Mr. Irwine had sat down again in silence : he was too wise 
to utter soothing words at present, and indeed the sight of 
Adam before him, with that look of sudden age which some- 
times comes over a young face in moments of terrible emotion 
— the hard bloodless look of the skin, the deep lines about the 
quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow — the sight of this 
strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow, 
moved him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood 
motionless, with his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a 
minute or two ; in that short space he was living through all 
his love again. 

“ She can’t ha’ done it,” he said, still without moving his 
eyes, as if he were only talking to himself : “ it was fear 
made her hide it ... I forgive her for deceiving me ... I 
forgive thee, Hetty . . . thee wast deceived too ... it ’s 
gone hard wi’ thee, my poor Hetty . . . but they’ll never 
make me believe it.” 

He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, 
with fierce abruptness — 

" I ’ll go to him — I ’ll bring him back — I ’ll make him go 
and look at her in her misery — he shall look at her till he 
can’t forget it — it shall follow him night and day — as long 
as he lives it shall follow him — he shan’t escape wi’ lies this 
time — I ’ll fetch him, I ’ll drag him myself.” 


424 


ADAM BEDE. 


In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused auto- 
matically and looked about for his hat, quite unconscious 
where he was, or who was present with him. Mr. Irwine had 
followed him, and now took him by the arm, saying, in a 
quiet but decided tone — 

“ No, Adam, no ; I’m sure you will wish to stay and see 
what good can be done for her , instead of going on a useless 
errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fall with- 
out your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland : he must 
be on his way home — or would be, long before you arrived ; 
for his grandfather, I know, wrote for him to come at least 
ten days ago. I want you now to go with me to Stoniton. I 
have ordered a horse for you to ride with us, as soon as you 
can compose yourself.” 

While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his con- 
sciousness of the actual scene : he rubbed his hair off his 
forehead and listened. 

“ Remember,” Mr. Irwine went on, “ there are others to 
think of, and act for, besides yourself, Adam : there are 
Hetty’s friends, the good Poysers, on whom this stroke will 
fall more heavily than I can bear to think. I expect it from 
your strength of mind, Adam — from your sense of duty to 
God and man — that you will try to act as long as action can 
be of any use.” 

In reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton for 
Adam’s own sake. Movement, with some object before him, 
was the best means of counteracting the violence of suffering 
in these first hours. 

“ You will go with me to Stoniton, Adam ? ” he said again, 
after a moment’s pause. “We have to see if it is really Hetty 
who is there, you know.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Adam, “ I ’ll do what you think right. But 
the folks at th’ Hall Farm ? ” 

“ I wish them not to know till I return to tell them my- 
self. I shall have ascertained things then which I am uncer- 
tain about now, and I shall return as soon as possible. Come 
now, the horses are ready.” 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD. 


425 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD. 

Mr. Irwine returned from Stoniton in a post-chaise that 
night, and the first words Carroll said to him, as he entered 
the house, were, that Squire Donnithorne was dead — found 
dead in his bed at ten o’clock that morning — and that Mrs. 
Irwine desired him to say she should be awake when Mr. 
Irwine came home, and she begged him not to go to bed 
without seeing her. 

“ Well, Dauphin,” Mrs. Irwine said, as her son entered her 
room, “ you ’re come at last. So the old gentleman’s fidgeti- 
ness and low spirits, which made him send for Arthur in that 
sudden way, really meant something. I suppose Carroll has 
told you that Donnithorne was found dead in his bed this 
morning. You will believe my prognostications another time, 
though I dare say I shan’t live to prognosticate anything but 
my own death.” 

“ What have they done about Arthur ? ” said Mr. Irwine. 
“ Sent a messenger to await him at Liverpool ? ” 

“Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. 
Dear Arthur, I shall live now to see him master at the Chase, 
and making good times on the estate, like a generous-hearted 
fellow as he is. He ’ll be as happy as a king now.” 

Mr. Irwine could not help giving a slight groan : he was 
worn with anxiety and exertion, and his mother’s light words 
were almost intolerable. 

“ What are you so dismal about, Dauphin ? Is there any 
bad news ? Or are you thinking of the danger for Arthur in 
crossing that frightful Irish Channel at this time of year ? ” 

“ Ho, mother, I ’m not thinking of that ; but I ’m not pre. 
pared to rejoice just now.” 

“ You ’ve been worried by this law business that you ’ve been 
to Stoniton about. What in the world is it, that you can’t 
tell me?” 


426 


ADAM BEDE. 


«You will know by-and-by, mother. It would not be right 
for me to tell you at present. Good-night : you ’ll sleep now 
you have no longer anything to listen for.” 

Mr. Irwine gave up his intention of sending a letter to meet 
Arthur, since it would not now hasten his return : the news of 
his grandfather’s death would bring him as soon as he could 
possibly come. He could go to bed now and get some needful 
rest, before the time came for the morning’s heavy duty of 
carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm and to Adam’s 
home. 

Adam himself was not come back from Stoniton, for though 
he shrank from seeing Hetty, he could not bear to go to a dis- 
tance from her again. 

“It’s no use, sir,” he said to the Hector — a it’s no use for 
me to go back. I can’t go to work again while she ’s here ; 
and I could n’t bear the sight o’ the things and folks round 
home. I’ll take a bit of a room here, where I can see the 
prison walls, and perhaps I shall get, in time, to bear seeing 
her .” 

Adam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was 
innocent of the crime she was charged with, for Mr. Irwine, 
feeling that the belief in her guilt would be a crushing addi- 
tion to Adam’s load, had kept from him the facts which left 
no hope in his own mind. There was not any reason for 
thrusting the whole burthen on Adam at once, and Mr. Irwine, 
at parting, only said, “ If the evidence should tell too strongly 
against her, Adam, we may still hope for a pardon. Her youth 
and other circumstances will be a plea for her.” 
f “Ah, and it ’s right people should know how she was tempted 
into the wrong way,” said Adam, with bitter earnestness. 
“ It ’s right they should know it was a fine gentleman made 
love to her, and turned her head wi’ notions. You ’ll remem- 
ber, sir, you ’ve promised to tell my mother, and Seth, and the 
people at the Farm, who it was as led her wrong, else they ’ll 
think harder of her than she deserves. You ’ll be doing her 
a hurt by sparing him, and I hold him the guiltiest before 
God, let her ha’ done what she may. If you spare him, I ’ll 
expose him ! ” 


427 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD. 

“ 1 think your demand is just, Adam,” said Mr. Irwine, “but 
when you are calmer, you will judge Arthur more mercifully. 
I say nothing now, only that his punishment is in other hands 
than ours.” 

Mr. Irwine felt it hard upon him that he should have to tell 
of Arthur’s sad part in the story of sin and sorrow — he who 
cared for Arthur with fatherly affection — who had cared for 
him with fatherly pride. But he saw clearly that the secret 
must be known before long, even apart from Adam’s determi- 
nation, since it was scarcely to be supposed that Hetty would 
persist to the end in her obstinate silence. He made up his 
mind to withhold nothing from the Poysers, but to tell them 
the worst at once, for there was no time to rob the tidings of 
their suddenness. Hetty’s trial must come on at the Lent 
assizes, and they were to be held at Stoniton the next week. 
It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin Poyser could escape 
the pain of being called as a witness, and it was better he 
should know everything as long beforehand as possible. 

Before ten o’clock on Thursday morning the home at the 
Hall Farm was a house of mourning for a misfortune felt to be 
worse than death. The sense of family dishonor was too keen 
even in the kind-hearted Martin Poyser the younger, to leave 
room for any compassion towards Hetty. He and his father 
were simple-minded farmers, proud of their untarnished char- 
acter, proud that they came of a family which had held up its 
head and paid its way as far back as its name was in the parish 
register ; and Hetty had brought disgrace on them all — dis- 
grace that could never be wiped out. That was the all-conquer- 
ing feeling in the mind both of father and son — the scorching 
sense of disgrace, which neutralized all other sensibility ; and 
Mr. Irwine was struck with surprise to observe that Mrs. Poy- 
ser was less severe than her husband. We are often startled 
by the severity of mild people on exceptional occasions ; the 
reason is, that mild people are most liable to be under the yoke 
of traditional impressions. 

“I’m willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying 
\o bring her off,” said Martin the younger when Mr. Irwine 
was gone, while the old grandfather was crying in the opposite 


128 


ADAM BEDE. 


chair, “ but I ’ll not go nigh her, nor ever see her again, by my 
own will. She ’s made our bread bitter to us for all our lives 
to come, an’ we shall ne’er hold up our heads i’ this parish nor 
i’ any other. The parson talks o’ folks pitying us : it ’s poor 
amends pity ’ull make us.” 

“ Pity ? ” said the grandfather, sharply. “ I ne’er wanted 
folks’s pity i’ my life afore . . . an’ I mun begin to be looked 
down on now, an’ me turned seventy-two last St. Thomas’s, 
an’ all th’ under-bearers and pall-bearers as I ’n picked for my 
funeral are i’ this parish and the next to ’t. . . . It ’s o’ no use 
now ... I mun be ta’en to the grave by strangers.” 

“ Don’t fret so, father,” said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken 
very little, being almost overawed by her husband’s unusual 
hardness and decision. “ You ’ll have your children wi’ you ; 
\n’ there ’s the lads and the little un ’ull grow up in a new parish 
js well as i’ th’ old un.” 

“ Ah, there ’s no staying i’ this country for us now,” said 
Mr. Poyser, and the hard tears trickled slowly down his round 
cheeks. “We thought it ’ud be bad luck if the old Squire 
gave us notice this Lady Day, but I must gi’ notice myself 
now, an’ see if there can anybody be got to come an’ take to 
the crops as I ’n put i’ the ground ; for I wonna stay upo’ that 
man’s land a day longer nor I ’m forced to ’t. An’ me, as 
thought him such a good upright young man, as I should be 
glad when he come to be our landlord. I ’ll ne’er lift my hat 
to him again, nor sit i’ the same church wi’ him ... a man 
as has brought shame on respectable folks ... an’ pretended 
to be such a friend t’ everybody. . . . Poor Adam there . . . 
a fine friend* he ’s been t’ Adam, making speeches an’ talking 
so fine, an’ all the while poisoning the lad’s life, as it ’s much 
if he can stay i’ this country any more nor we can.” 

“ An’ you t’ ha’ to go into court, and own you ’re akin t’ 
her,” said the old man. “ Why, they ’ll cast it up to the little 
un, as is n’t four ’ear old, some day — they ’ll cast it up t’ her 
as she ’d a cousin tried at the ’sizes for murder.” 

“It’ll be their own wickedness, then,” said Mrs. Poyser, 
with a sob in her voice. “But there’s One above ’ull take 
care o’ the innicent child, else it ’s but little truth they tell 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD. 429 

us at church. It ’ll be harder nor ever to die an’ leave the 
little uns, an’ nobody to be a mother to ’em.” 

“ We ’d better ha’ sent for Dinah, if we ’d known where she 
is,” said Mr. Poyser ; “ but Adam said she ’d left no direction 
where she ’d be at Leeds.” 

“ Why, she ’d be wi’ that woman as was a friend t’ her 
aunt Judith,” said Mrs. Poyser, comforted a little by this 
suggestion of her husband’s. “I’ve often heard Dinah talk 
of her, but I can’t remember what name she ealled her by. 
But there ’s Seth Bede ; he ’s like enough to know, for she ’s a 
preaching woman as the Methodists think a deal on.” 

“ I ’ll send to Seth,” said Mr. Poyser. “ I ’ll send Alick to 
tell him to come, or else to send us word o’ the woman’s name, 
an’ thee canst write a letter ready to send off to Treddles’on 
as soon as we can make out a direction.” 

“It’s poor work writing letters when you want folks to 
come to you i’ trouble,” said Mrs. Poyser. “ Happen it ’ll be 
ever so long on the road, an’ never reach her at last.” 

Before Alick arrived with the message, Lisbeth’s thoughts 
too had already flown to Dinah, and she had said to Seth — 

“ Eh, there ’s no comfort for us i’ this world any more, 
wi’out thee couldst get Dinah Morris to come to us, as she did 
when my old man died. I ’d like her to come in an’ take me 
by th’ hand again, an’ talk to me : she ’d tell me the rights 
on ’t, belike — she ’d happen know some good i’ all this trouble 
an’ heart-break cornin’ upo’ that poor lad, as ne’er done a bit 
o’ wrong in ’s life, but war better nor anybody else’s son, pick 
the country round. Eh, my lad . . . Adam, my poor lad ! ” 

“ Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch 
Dinah ? ” said Seth, as his mother sobbed, and rocked herself 
to and fro. 

“ Fetch her ? ” said Lisbeth, looking up, and pausing from 
her grief, like a crying child, who hears some promise of con- 
solation. “Why, what place is ’t she ’s at, do they say ? ” 

“It’s a good way off, mother — Leeds, a big town. But I 
could be back in three days, if thee couldst spare me.” 

“ Nay, nay, I canna spare thee. Thee must go an’ see thy 
brother, an’ bring me word what he ’s a-doin’. Mester Irwine 


430 


ADAM BEDE. 


said he ’d come an’ toll me, but I canna make out so well what 
it means when he tells me. Thee must go thysen, sin’ Adam 
wonna let me go to him. Write a letter to Dinah, canstna ? 
Thee ’t fond enough o’ writin’ when nobody wants thee.” 

“ I hn not sure where she ’d be i’ that big town,” said Seth. 
“If I ’d gone myself, I could ha’ found out by asking the 
members o’ the Society. But perhaps, if I put Sarah W illiam- 
son, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o’ th’ outside, it might get to 
her; for most like she J d be wi’ Sarah Williamson.” 

Alick came now with the message, and Seth, finding that 
Mrs. Poyser was writing to Dinah, gave up the intention of 
writing himself; but he went to the Hall Farm to tell them 
all he could suggest about the address of the letter, and warn 
them that there might be some delay in the delivery, from his 
not knowing an exact direction. 

On leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwine had gone to Jonathan Burge, 
who had also a claim to be acquainted with what was likely 
to keep Adam away from business for some time; and before 
six o’clock that evening there were few people in Broxton and 
Hayslope who had not heard the sad news. Mr. Irwine had 
not mentioned Arthur’s name to Burge, and yet the story of 
his conduct towards Hetty, with all the dark shadows cast 
upon it by its terrible consequences, was presently as well 
known as that his grandfather was dead, and that he was 
come into the estate. For Martin Poyser felt no motive to 
keep silence towards the one or two neighbors who ventured to 
come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the first day 
of his trouble ; and Carroll, who kept his ears open to all that 
passed at the Rectory, had framed an inferential version of the 
story, and found early opportunities of communicating it. 

One of those neighbors who came to Martin Poyser and 
shook him by the hand without speaking for some minutes, 
was Bartle Massey. He had shut up his school, and was on 
his way to the Rectory, where he arrived about half-past 
seven in the evening, and, sending his duty to Mr. Irwine, 
begged pardon for troubling him at that hour, but had some- 
thing particular on his mind. He was shown into the study, 
where Mr. Irwine soon joined him. 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD. 


431 


“Well, Bartle?” said Mr Irwine, putting out his hand. 
That was not his usual way of saluting the schoolmaster, but 
trouble makes us treat all who feel with us very much alike. 
“ Sit down.” 

“ You know what I ’m come about as well as I do, sir, I 
dare say,” said Bartle. 

“ You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has 
reached you . . . about Hetty Sorrel ? ” 

“ Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I 
understand you left him at Stoniton, and I beg the favor of 
you to tell me what ’s the state of the poor lad’s mind, and 
what he means to do. For as for that bit o’ pink-and-white 
they ’ve taken the trouble to put in jail, I don’t value her a 
rotten nut — not a rotten nut — only for the harm or good 
that may come out of her to an honest man — a lad I’ve set 
such store by — trusted to, that he ’d make my bit o’ knowl- 
edge go a good way in the world. . . . Why, sir, he ’s the only 
scholar I ’ve had in this stupid country that ever had the will 
or the head-piece for mathematics. If he had n’t had so much 
hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the 
higher branches, and then this might never have happened — 
might never have happened.” 

Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an 
agitated frame of mind, and was not able to check himself 
on this first occasion of venting his feelings. But he paused 
now to rub his moist forehead, and probably his moist eyes 
also. 

“ You ’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, when this pause had given 
him time to reflect, “for running on in this way about my own 
feelings, like that foolish dog of mine, howling in a storm, 
when there ’s nobody wants to listen to me. I came to hear 
you speak, not to talk myself ; if you ’ll take the trouble to 
tell me what the poor lad ’s doing.” 

“ Don’t put yourself under any restraint, Bartle,” said Mr. 
Irwine. “ The fact is, I ’m very much in the same condition 
as you just now ; I ’ve a great deal that ’s painful on my mind, 
and I find it hard work to be quite silent about my own feel 
ings and only attend to others. I share your concern for 


ADAM BEDE. 


432 

Adam, though he is not the only one whose sufferings I car* 
for in this affair. He intends to remain at Stoniton till after 
the trial : it will come on probably a week to-morrow. He 
has taken a room there, and I encouraged him to do so, be- 
cause I think it better he should be away from his own home 
at present ; and, poor fellow, he still believes Hetty is innocent 

— he wants to summon up courage to see her if he can ; he is 
unwilling to leave the spot where she is.” 

“Do you think the creatures guilty, then?” said Bartle. 
“ Do you think they ’ll hang her ?• ” 

“ I ’m afraid it will go hard with her : the evidence is very 
strong. And one bad symptom is that she denies everything 

— denies that she has had a child in the face of the most 
positive evidence. I saw her myself, and she was obsti- 
nately silent to me; she shrank up like a frightened animal 
when she saw me. I was never so shocked in my life as 
at the change in her. But I trust that, in the worst case, 
we may obtain a pardon for the sake of the innocent who are 
involved.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense ! ” said Bartle, forgetting in his irrita- 
tion to whom he was speaking — “I beg your pardon, sir, 
I mean it ’s stuff and nonsense for the innocent to care about 
her being hanged. For my own part, I think the sooner such 
women are put out o’ the world the better ; and the men that 
help ’em to do mischief had better go along with ’em for that 
matter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin 
alive ? eating the victual that ’ud feed rational beings. But 
if Adam ’s fool enough to care about it, I don’t want him to 
suffer more than ’s needful. . . . Is he very much cut up, poor 
fellow ? ” Bartle added, taking out his spectacles and putting 
them on, as if they would assist his imagination. 

“Yes, I’m afraid the grief cuts very deep,” said Mr. Irwine. 
“ He looks terribly shattered, and a certain violence came over 
him now and then yesterday, which made me wish I could 
have remained near him. But I shall go to Stoniton again 
to-morrow, and I have confidence enough in the strength of 
Adam’s principle to trust that he will be able to endure the 
worst without being driven to anything rash.” 


THE BITTER WATERS SPREAD, 


433 


Mr. Irwine, who was involuntarily uttering his own thoughts 
rather than addressing Bartle Massey in the last sentence, had 
in his mind the possibility that the spirit of vengeance towards 
Arthur, which was the form Adam’s anguish was continually 
taking, might make him seek an encounter that was likely to 
end more fatally than the one in the Grove. This possibil 
ity heightened the anxiety with which he looked forward to 
Arthur’s arrival. But Bartle thought Mr. Irwine was referring 
to suicide, and his face wore a new alarm. 

“ I ’ll tell you what I have in my head, sir,” he said, “ and 
I hope you ’ll approve of it. I ’m going to shut up my school : 
if the scholars come, they must go back again, that ’s all : and 
I shall go to Stoniton and look after Adam till this business 
is over. I ’ll pretend I ’m come to look on at the assizes ; he 
can’t object to that. What do you think about it, sir ? ” 

“Well,” said Mr. Irwine, rather hesitatingly, “there would 
be some real advantages in that . . . and I honor you for 
your friendship towards him, Bartle. But . . . you must be 
^ careful what you say to him, you know. I ’m afraid you have 
too little fellow-feeling in what you consider his weakness 
about Hetty.” 

“Trust to me, sir — trust to me. I know what you mean. 
I ’ve been a fool myself in my time, but that’s between 
you and me. I shan’t thrust myself on him — only keep my 
eye on him, and see that he gets some good food, and put in a 
word here and there.” 

“Then,” said Mr. Irwine, reassured a little as to Bartle’s 
discretion, “ I think you ’ll be doing a good deed ; and it will 
be well for you to let Adam’s mother and brother know that 
you ’re going.” 

“Yes, sir, yes,” said Bartle, rising, and taking. off his specta- 
cles, “ I ’ll do that, I ’ll do that ; though the mother ’s a whim- 
pering thing — I don’t like to come within earshot of her ; 
however, she ’s a straight-backed, clean woman, none of your 
slatterns. I wish you good-by, sir, and thank you for the 
time you’ve spared me. You’re everybody’s friend in this 
business — everybody’s friend. It’s a heavy weight you’ve 
got on your shoulders.” 


VOL. I. 


434 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Good-by, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I dare say 
we shall.” 

Bartle hurried away from the Bectory, evading Carroll’s 
conversational advances, and saying in an exasperated tone to 
Vixen, whose short legs pattered beside him on the gravel — 
“Now, I shall be obliged to take you with me, you good-for- 
nothing woman. You’d go fretting yourself to death if I left 
you — you know you would, and perhaps get snapped up by 
jome tramp ; and you ’ll be running into bad company, I ex- 
pect, putting your nose in every hole and corner where you ’ve 
no business ! but if you do anything disgraceful, I ’ll disown 
you — mind that, madam, mind that ! ” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE EVE OF THE TRIAL. 

An upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in 
it — one laid on the floor. It is ten o’clock on Thursday 
night, and the dark wall opposite the window shuts out the 
moonlight that might have struggled with the light of the one 
dip candle by which Bartle Massey is pretending to read, 
while he is really looking over his spectacles at Adam Bede, 
seated near the dark window. 

You would hardly have known it was Adam without being 
told. His face has got thinner this last week : he has the 
sunken eyes, the neglected beard of a man just risen from a 
sick-bed. His heavy black hair hangs over his forehead, and 
there is no active impulse in him which inclines him to push 
it off, that he may be more awake to what is around him. He 
has one arm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be 
looking down at his clasped hando. He is roused by a knock 
at the door. 

“ There he is,” said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and un- 
fastening the door. It was Mr. Irwine. 


THE EVE OF THE TRIAL. 435 

Adam rose from liis chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. 
Irwine approached him and took his hand. 

“ I ’m late, Adam,” he said, sitting down on the chair which 
Bartle placed for him ; “ but I was later in setting off from 
Broxton than I intended to be, and I have been incessantly 
occupied since I arrived. I have done everything now, how- 
ever — everything that can be done to-night, at least. Let us 
all sit down.” 

Adam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, for 
whom there was no chair remaining, sat on the bed in the 
background. 

“ Have you seen her, sir ? ” said Adam, tremulously. 

“Yes, Adam; I and the chaplain have both been with her 
this evening ? ” 

“ Did you ask her, sir . . . did you say anything about 
me ? ” # 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, “ I spoke of 
you. I said you wished to see her before the trial, if she 
consented.” 

As Mr. Irwine paused, Adam looked at him with eager, 
questioning eyes. 

“You know she shrinks from seeing any one, Adam. It is 
not only you — some fatal influence seems to have shut up her 
heart against her fellow-creatures. She has scarcely said any- 
thing more than ‘ No/ either to me or the chaplain. Three 
or four days ago, before you were mentioned to her, when T 
asked her if there was any one of her family whom she would 
like to see — to whom she could open her mind, she said, with 
a violent shudder, ‘ Tell them not to come near me — I won’fc 
see any of them / ” 

Adam’s head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. 
There was silence for a few minutes, and then Mr. Irwine 
said — 

“ I don’t like to advise you against your own feelings Adam, 
if they now urge you strongly tr go and see her to-morrow 
morning, even without her consent. It is just possible, not- 
withstanding appearances to the contrary, that the interview 
might affect her favorably. But I grieve to say I have scarcely 


436 


ADAM BEDE. 


any hope of that. She did n’t seem agitated when I mentioned 
your name; she only said ‘No/ in the same cold, obstinate 
way as usual. And if the meeting had no good effect on her, 
it would be pure, useless suffering to you — severe suffering, 
I fear. She is very much changed — ” 

Adam started up from his chair, and seized his hat which 
Jay on the table. But he stood still then, and looked at Mr 
Irwine, as if he had a question to ask, which it was yet diffi- 
cult to utter. Bartle Massey rose quietly, turned the key in 
the door, and put it in his pocket. 

“ Is he come back ? ” said Adam at last. 

“No, he has not,” said Mr. Irwine, quietly. “Lay down 
your hat, Adam, unless you like to walk out with me for a 
little fresh air. I fear you have not been out again to-day.” 

“ You need n’t deceive me, sir,” said Adam, looking hard at 
Mr. Irwine, and speaking in a tone of angry suspicion. “ You 
need n’t be afraid of me. I only want justice. I want him to 
feel what she feels. It ’s his work . . . she was a child as it 
’ud ha’ gone t’ anybody’s heart to look at. ... I don’t care 
what she ’s done ... it was him brought her to it. And he 
shall know it ... he shall feel it ... if there ’s a just God, 
he shall feel what it is t’ ha’ brought a child like her to sin 
and misery.” 

“ I ’m not deceiving you, Adam,” said Mr. Irwine. “ Arthur 
Donnithorne is not come back — was not come back when I 
left. I have left a letter for him : he will know all as soon as 
he arrives.” 

“But you don’t mind about it,” said Adam, indignantly. 
“You think it doesn’t matter as she lies there in shame and 
misery, and he knows nothing about it — he suffers nothing.” 

“ Adam, he will know — he will suffer, long and bitterly. He 
has a heart and a conscience : I can’t be entirely deceived in 
his character. I am convinced — I am sure he did n’t fall un- 
der temptation without a struggle. He may be weak, but he 
is not callous, not coldly selfish. I am persuaded that this 
will be a shock of which he will feel the effects all his life. 
Why do you crave vengeance in this way ? No amount of tor- 
ture that you could inflict on him could benefit her.” 


THE EYE OF THE TRIAL. 


437 


“No — 0 God, no,” Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair 
again ; “ but then, that ’s the deepest curse of all . . . that \s 
what makes the blackness of it . . . it can never be undone. 
My poor Hetty . . . she can never be my sweet Hetty agair 
. . . the prettiest thing God had made — smiling up at me . . 
t thought she loved me . . . and was good — ” 

Adam’s voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse under- 
tone, as if he were only talking to himself ; but now he said 
abruptly, looking at Mr. Irwine — 

“But she isn’t as guilty as they say ? You don’t think she 
is, sir ? She can’t ha’ done it.” 

“ That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam,” 
Mr. Irwine answered, gently. “In these cases we sometimes 
form our judgment on what seems to us strong evidence, and 
yet, for want of knowing some small fact, our judgment is 
wrong. But suppose the worst : you have no right to say 
that the guilt of her crime lies with him, and that he ought to 
bear the punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the 
shares of moral guilt and retribution. We find it impossible 
to avoid mistakes even in determining who has committed a 
single criminal act, and the problem how far a man is to be 
held responsible for the unforeseen consequences of his own 
deed, is one that might well make us tremble to look into it. 
The evil consequences that may lie folded in a single act of 
selfish indulgence, is a thought so awful that it ought surely 
to awaken some feeling less presumptuous than a rash desire 
to punish. You have a mind that can understand this fully, 
Adam, when you are calm. Don’t suppose I can’t enter into 
the anguish that drives you into this state of revengeful hatred ; 
but think of this : if you were to obey your passion — for it 
is passion, and you deceive yourself in calling it justice — it 
might be with you precisely as it has been with Arthur ; nay, 
worse ; your passion might lead you yourself into a horrible 
crime.” 

“No — not worse,” said Adam, bitterly; “I don’t believe 
it ’s worse — I ’d sooner do it — I ’d sooner do a wickedness 
as I could suffer for by myself, than ha’ brought her to do 
wickedness and then stand by and see ’em punish her whilf 


438 


ADAM BEDE. 


they let me alone; and all for a bit o’ pleasure, as, if he’d 
had a man’s heart in him, he ’d ha’ cut his hand off sooner 
than he ’d ha’ taken it. What if he did n’t foresee what ’s 
happened ? He foresaw enough : he ’d no right to expect any- 
thing but harm and shame to her. And then he wanted to 
smooth it off wi’ lies. No — there ’s plenty o’ things folks are 
hanged for, not half so hateful as that : let a man do what he 
will, if he knows he ’s to bear the punishment himself, he is n’t 
half so bad as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t’ 
himself, and knows all the while the punishment ’ll fall on 
somebody else.” 

“ There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is 
no sort of wrong deed of which a man can bear the punish- 
ment alone ; you can’t isolate yourself, and say that the evil 
which is in you shall not spread. Men’s lives are as thoroughly 
blended with each other as the air they breathe : evil spreads 
as necessarily as disease. I know, I feel the terrible extent 
of suffering this sin of Arthur’s has caused to others ; but 
so does every sin cause suffering to others besides those who 
commit it. An act of vengeance on your part against Arthur 
would simply be another evil added to those we are suffering 
under : you could not bear the punishment alone ; you would 
entail the worst sorrows on every one who loves you. You 
would have committed an act of blind fury, that would leave 
all the present evils just as they were, and add worse evils 
to them. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of 
vengeance : but the feeling in your mind is what gives birth 
to such actions, and as long as you indulge it, as long as you 
do not see that to fix your mind on Arthur’s punishment is 
revenge, and not justice, you are in danger of being led on to 
the commission of some great wrong. Kemember what you 
told me about your feelings after you had given that blow to 
Arthur in the Grove.” 

Adam was silent : the last words had called up a vivid image 
of the past, and Mr. Irwine left him to his thoughts, while he 
spoke to Bartle Massey about old Mr. Donnithorne’s funeral 
and other matters of an indifferent kind. But at length Adam 
turned round and said, in a more subdued tone — 


THE EVE OF THE TEIAL. 439 

“I’ve not asked about ’em at th’ Hall Farm, sir. Is Mr. 
Poyser coming ? ” 

“ He is come ; he is in Stoniton to-night. But I could not 
advise him to see you, Adam. His own mind is in a very 
perturbed state, and it is best he should not see you till you 
are calmer.” 

“ Is Dinah Morris come to ’em, sir ? Seth said they ’d sent 
for her.” 

“No. Mr. Poyser tells me she was not come when he left. 
They ’re afraid the letter has not reached her. It seems they 
had. no exact address.” 

Adam sat ruminating a little while, and then said — 

“ I wonder if Dinah ’ud ha’ gone to see her. But perhaps 
the Poysers would ha’ been sorely against it, since they won’t 
come nigh her themselves. But I think she would, for the 
Methodists are great folks for going into the prisons ; and 
Seth said he thought she would. She ’d a very tender way 
with her, Dinah had; I wonder if she could ha’ done any 
good. You never saw her, sir, did you ? ” 

“Yes, I did: I had a conversation with her — she pleased 
me a good deal. And now you mention it, I wish she would 
come ; for it is possible that a gentle, mild woman like her 
might move Hetty to open her heart. The jail chaplain is 
rather harsh in his manner.” 

“ But it ’s o’ no use if she does n’t come,” said Adam, 
sadly. 

“If I’d thought of it earlier, I would have taken some 
measures for finding her out,” said Mr. Irwine, “ but it ’s too 
late now, I fear. . . . Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to 
get some rest to-night God bless you. I ’ll see you early 
to-morrow morning.” 


ADAM BEDE. 


440 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE MORNING OF THE TRIAL. 

At one o’clock the next day, Adam was alone in his dull 
upper room ; his watch lay before him on the table, as if he 
were counting the long minutes. He had no knowledge of 
what was likely to be said by the witnesses on the trial, for 
he had shrunk from all the particulars connected with Hetty’s 
arrest and accusation. This brave active man, who would have 
hastened towards any danger or toil to rescue Hetty from an 
apprehended wrong or misfortune, felt himself powerless to 
contemplate irremediable evil and suffering. The suscepti- 
bility which would have been an impelling force where there 
was any possibility of action, became helpless anguish when 
he was obliged to be passive, or else sought an active outlet in 
the thought of inflicting justice on Arthur. Energetic natures, 
strong for all strenuous deeds, will often rush away from a 
hopeless sufferer, as if they were hard-hearted. It is the over- 
mastering sense of pain that drives them. They shrink by an 
ungovernable instinct, as they would shrink from laceration. 
Adam had brought himself to think of seeing Hetty, if she 
would consent to see him, because he thought the meeting 
might possibly be a good to her — might help to melt away 
this terrible hardness they told him of. If she saw he bore 
her no ill-will for what she had done to him, she might open 
her heart to him. But this resolution had been an immense 
effort ; he trembled at the thought of seeing her changed face, 
as a timid woman trembles at the thought of the surgeon’s 
knife ; and he chose now to bear the long hours of suspense, 
rather than encounter what seemed to him the more intolerable 
agony of witnessing her trial. 

Deep, unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a 
regeneration, the initiation into a new state. The yearning 
memories, the bitter regret, the agonized sympathy, the strug- 
gling appeals to the Invisible Right — all the intense emotions 


THE MORNING OF THE TRIAL, 


441 


which had filled the days and nights of the past week, and 
were compressing themselves again like an eager crowd into 
the hours of this single morning, made Adam look back on all 
the previous years as if they had been a dim sleepy existence, 
and he had only now awaked to full consciousness. It seemed 
to him as if he had always before thought it a light thing that 
men should suffer ; as if all that he had himself endured and 
called sorrow before, was only a moment’s stroke that had 
never left a bruise. Doubtless a great anguish may do the 
work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of fire 
with a soul full of new awe and new pity. 

“0 God,” Adam groaned, as he leaned on the table, and 
looked blankly at the face of the watch, “and men have suf- 
fered like this before . . . and poor helpless young things 
have suffered like her. . . . Such a little while ago looking so 
happy and so pretty . . . kissing ’em all, her grandfather and 
all of ’em, and they wishing her luck. ... 0 my poor, poor 
Hetty . . . dost think on it now ? ” 

Adam started and looked round towards the door. Vixen 
had begun to whimper, and there was a sound of a stick and a 
lame walk on the stairs. It was Bartle Massey come back. 
Could it be all over ? 

Bartle entered quietly, and, going up to Adam, grasped his 
hand and said, “ I ’m just come to look at you, my boy, for the 
folks are gone out of court for a bit.” 

Adam’s heart beat so violently, he was unable to speak — 
he could only return the pressure of his friend’s hand; and 
Bartle, drawing up the other chair, came and sat in front of 
him, taking off his hat and his spectacles. 

“ That ’s a thing never happened to me before,” he observed 
— “ to go out o’ door with my spectacles on. I clean forgot 
to take ’em off.” 

The old man made this trivial remark, thinking it better 
not to respond at all to Adam’s agitation : he would gather, 
in an indirect way, that there was nothing decisive to commu- 
nicate at present. 

“And now,” he said, rising again, “I must see to your 
having a bit of the loaf, and some of that wine Mr. Irwine 


442 


ADAM BEDE. 


sent tliis morning. He ’ll be angry with me if you don’t have 
it. Come, now,” he went on, bringing forward the bottle and 
the loaf, and pouring some wine into a cup, “ I must have a 
bit and a sup myself. Drink a drop with me, my lad — drink 
with me.” 

Adam pushed the cup gently away, and said, entreatingly, 
“Tell me about it, Mr. Massey — tell me all about it. Wag 
she there ? Have they begun ? ” 

“ Yes, my boy, yes — it ’s taken all the time since I first 
went ; but they ’re slow, they ’re slow j and there ’s the coun- 
sel they ’ve got for her puts a spoke in the wheel whenever he 
can, and makes a deal to do with cross-examining the wit- 
nesses, and quarrelling with the other lawyers. That ’s all .he 
can do for the money they give him ; and it ’s a big sum — 
it’s a big sum. But he ’s a ’cute fellow, with an eye that ’ud 
pick the needles out of the hay in no time. If a man had got 
no feelings, it ’ud be as good as a demonstration to listen to 
what goes on in court ; but a tender heart makes one stupid. 
I ’d have given up figures forever only to have had some good 
news to bring to you, my poor lad.” 

“ But does it seem to be going against her ? ” said Adam. 
“ Tell me what they ’ve said. I must know it now — I must 
know what they have to bring against her.” 

“ Why, the chief evidence yet has been the doctors ; all but 
Martin Poyser — poor Martin. Everybody in court felt for 
him — it was like one sob, the sound they made when he came 
down again. The worst was, when they told him to look at 
the prisoner at the bar. It was hard work, poor fellow — it 
was hard work. Adam, my boy, the blow falls heavily on him 
as well as you : you must help poor Martin ; you must show 
courage. Drink some wine now, and show me you mean to 
bear it like a man.” 

Bartle had made the right sort of appeal. Adam, with an 
air of quiet obedience, took up the cup, and drank a little. 

“ Tell me how she looked,” he said, presently. 

a Frightened, very frightened, when they first brought her 
in; it was the first sight of the crowd and the judge, poor 
creatur. And there ’s a lot o’ foolish women in fine clothes, 


THE MORNING OF THE TRIAL. 


448 


with gewgaws all up their arms and feathers on their heads, 
sitting near the judge : they ’ve dressed themselves out in that 
way, one ’ud think, to he scarecrows and warnings against any 
man ever meddling with a woman again ; they put up their 
glasses, and stared and whispered. But after that she stood 
like a white image, staring down at her hands, and seeming 
neither to hear nor see anything. And she ’s as white as a 
sheet. She did n’t speak when they asked her if she ’d plead 
* guilty 9 or * not guilty,’ and they pled ‘ not guilty 9 for her. 
But when she heard her uncle’s name, there seemed to go a 
shiver right through her ; and when they told him to look at 
her, she hung her head down, and cowered, and hid her face 
in her hands. He ’d much ado to speak, poor man, liis voice 
trembled so. And the counsellors, — who look as hard as 
nails mostly, — I saw, spared him as much as they could. 
Mr. Irwine put himself near him, and went with him out o’ 
court. Ah, it’s a great thing in a man’s life to be able to 
stand by a neighbor and uphold him in such trouble as that.” 

“ God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, in a 
low voice, laying his hand on Bartle’s arm. 

“ Ay, ay, he ’s good metal ; he gives the right ring when you 
try him, our parson does. A man o’ sense — says no more 
than ’s needful. He ’s not one of those that think they can 
comfort you with chattering, as if folks who stand by and look 
on knew a deal better what the trouble was than those who 
have to bear it. I ’ve had to do with such folks in my time 
— in the south, when I was in trouble myself. Mr. Irwine 
is to be a witness himself, by-and-by, on her side, you know, 
to speak to her character and bringing up.” 

'‘But the other evidence . . . does it go hard against her ? 99 
said Adam. “ What do you think, Mr. Massey ? Tell me the 
truth.” 

“ Yes, my lad, yes : the truth is the best thing to tell. It 
must come at last. The doctors’ evidence is heavy on her — is 
heavy. But she’s gone on denying she’s had a child from 
first to last : these poor silly women-things — they ’ve not the 
sense to know it ’s no use denying what ’s proved. It ’ll make 
against her with the jury, I doubt, her being so obstinate : 


444 


ADAM BEDE. 


they may be less for recommending her to mercy, if the ver- 
dict’s against her. But Mr. Irwine ’ull leave no stone unturned 
with the judge — you may rely upon that, Adam.” 

“ Is there nobody to stand by her, and seem to care for her 
in the court ? ” said Adam. 

“ There ’s the chaplain o’ the jail sits near her, but he’s a 
sharp ferrety-faced man — another sort o’ flesh and blood to 
Mr. Irwine. They say the jail chaplains are mostly the fag- 
end o’ the clergy.” 

“ There ’sone man as ought to be there,” said Adam, bitterly. 
Presently he drew himself up, and looked fixedly out of the 
window, apparently turning over some new idea in his mind. 

“ Mr. Massey,” he said at last, pushing the hair off his fore- 
head, “ I ’ll go back with you. I ’ll go into court. It ’s cow- 
ardly of me to keep away. I ’ll stand by her — I ’ll own her 
— for all she ’s been deceitful. They ought n’t to cast her 
off — her own flesh and blood. We hand folks over to God’s 
mercy, and show none ourselves. I used to be hard sometimes: 
I ’ll never be hard again. I ’ll go, Mr. Massey — I ’ll go with 
you.” 

There was a decision in Adam’s manner which would have 
prevented Bartle from opposing him, even if he had wished 
to do so. He only said — 

“ Take a bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the love of 
me. See, I must stop and eat a morsel. How, you take 
some.” 

Nerved by an active resolution, Adam took a morsel of 
bread, and drank some wine. He was haggard and unshaven, 
as he had been yesterday, but he stood upright again, and 
looked more like the Adam Bede of former days. 


THE VERDICT. 


445 


CHAPTER XLIIL 

THE VERDICT. 

The place fitted up that day as a court of justice was a 
grand old hall, now destroyed by fire. The mid-day light that 
fell on the close pavement of human heads, was shed through 
a line of high pointed windows, variegated with the mellow 
tints of old painted glass. Grim dusty armor hung in high 
relief in front of the dark oaken gallery at the farther end ; 
and under the broad arch of the great mullioned window oppo- 
site was spread a curtain of old tapestry, covered with dim mel- 
ancholy figures, like a dozing indistinct dream of the past. It 
was a place that through the rest of the year was haunted with 
the shadowy memories of old kings and queens, unhappy, dis- 
crowned, imprisoned; but to-day all those shadows had fled, 
and not a soul in the vast hall felt the presence of any but a 
living sorrow, which was quivering in warm hearts. 

But that sorrow seemed to have made itself feebly felt 
hitherto, now when Adam Bede’s tall figure was suddenly seen, 
being ushered to the side of the prisoner’s dock. In the broad 
sunlight of the great hall, among the sleek shaven faces of 
other men, the marks of suffering in his face were startling 
even to Mr. Irwine, who had last seen him in the dim light of 
his small room ; and the neighbors from Hayslope who were 
present, and who told Hetty Sorrel’s story by their firesides 
in their old age, never forgot to say how it moved them when 
Adam Bede, poor fellow, taller by the head than most of the 
people round him, came into court, and took his place by her 
side. 

But Hetty did not see him. She was standing in the same 
position Bartle Massey had described, her hands crossed over 
each other, and her eyes fixed on them. Adam had not dared 
to look at her in the first moments, but at last, when the at- 
tention of the court was withdrawn by the proceedings, he 
turned his face towards her with a resolution not to shrink. 


446 


ADAM BEDE. 


Why did they say she was so changed ? In the corpse we 
love, it is the likeness we see — it is the likeness, which makes 
itself felt the more keenly because something else was and is 
not. There they were — the sweet face and neck, with the 
dark tendrils of hair, the long dark lashes, the rounded cheek 
and the pouting lips: pale and thin — yes — but like Hetty, 
and only Hetty. Others thought she looked as if some demon 
had cast a blighting glance upon her, withered up the woman’s 
soul in her, and left only a hard despairing obstinacy. But 
the mother’s yearning, that completest type of the life in an- 
other life which is the essence of real human love, feels the 
presence of the cherished child even in the debased, degraded 
man; and to Adam, this pale, hard-looking culprit, was the 
Hetty who had smiled at him in the garden under the apple- 
tree boughs — she was that Hetty’s corpse, which he had 
trembled to look at the first time, and then was unwilling to 
turn away his eyes from. 

But presently he heard something that compelled him to 
listen, and made the sense of sight less absorbing. A woman 
was in the witness-box, a middle-aged woman, who spoke in a 
firm distinct voice. She said — 

“ My name is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep a small 
shop licensed to sell tobacco, snuff, and tea, in Church Lane, 
Stoniton. The prisoner at the bar is the same young woman 
who came, looking ill and tired, with a basket on her arm, and 
asked for a lodging at my house on Saturday evening, the 27th 
of February. She had taken the house for a public, because 
there was a figure against the door. And when I said I did n’t 
take in lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too 
tired to go anywhere else, and she only wanted a bed for one 
night. And her prettiness, and her condition, and something 
respectable about her clothes and looks, and the trouble she 
seemed to be in, made me as I could n’t find in my heart to 
send her away at once. I asked her to sit down, and gave her 
some tea, and asked her where she was going, and where her 
friends* were. She said she was going home to her friends . 
they were farming folks a good way off, and she ’d had a long 
journey that had cost her more money than she expected, so 


THE VEKD1CT. 


447 


as she ’d hardly any money left in her pocket, and was afraid 
of going where it would cost her much. She had been obliged 
to sell most of the things out of her basket ; but she ’d thank- 
fully give a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I should n’t 
take the young woman in for the night. I had only one room, 
but there were two beds in it, and I told her she might stay 
with me. I thought she ’d been led wrong, and got into trouble, 
but if she w r as going to her friends, it would be a good work 
to keep her out of further harm.” 

The witness then stated that in the night a child was born, 
and she identified the baby-clothes then shown to her as those 
in which she had herself dressed the child. 

“ Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had kept 
them by me ever since my last child was born. I took a deal 
of trouble both for the child and the mother. I could n’t help 
taking to the little thing and being anxious about it. I did n’t 
send for a doctor, for there seemed no need. I told the mother 
in the day-time she must tell me the name of her friends, arid 
where they lived, and let me write to them. She said, by-and- 
by she would write herself, but not to-day. She would have 
no nay, but she would get up and be dressed, in spite of every- 
thing I could say. She said she felt quite strong enough ; and 
it was wonderful what spirit she showed. But I was n’t quite 
easy what I should do about her, and towards evening I made 
up my mind I ’d go, after Meeting was over, and speak to our 
minister about it. I left the house about half-past eight o’clock. 
I did n’t go out at the shop door, but at the back door, which 
opens into a narrow alley. I ’ve only got the ground-floor of 
the house, and the kitchen and bedroom both look into the 
alley. I left the prisoner sitting up by the fire in the kitchen 
with the baby on her lap. She had n’t cried or seemed low at 
all, as she did the night before. I thought she had a strange 
look with her eyes, and she got a bit flushed towards evening. 
I was afraid of the fever, and I thought I ’d call and ask an 
acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, to come back 
with me when I went out. It was a very dark night. I did n’t 
fasten the door behind me : there was no lock : it was a latch 
with a bolt inside, and when there was nobody in the house I 


148 


ADAM BEDE. 


always went out at the shop door. But I thought there w*& 
no danger in leaving it unfastened that little while. I was 
longer than I meant to be, for I had to wait for the. woman 
that came back with me. It was an hour and a half before 
we got back, and when we went in, the candle was standing 
burning just as I left it, but the prisoner and the baby were 
both gone. She ’d taken her cloak and bonnet, but she ’d left 
the basket and the things in it. ... I was dreadful frightened, 
and angry with her for going. I did n’t go to give information, 
because I ’d no thought she meant to do any harm, and I knew 
she had money in her pocket to buy her food and lodging. I 
did n’t like to set the constable after her, for she ’d a right to 
go from me if she liked.” 

The effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical ; it gave 
him new force. Hetty could not be guilty of the crime — her 
heart must have clung to her baby — else why should she have 
taken it with her ? She might have left it behind. The little 
creature had died naturally, and then she had hidden it : babies 
were so liable to death — and there might be the strongest sus- 
picions without any proof of guilt. His mind was so occupied 
with imaginary arguments against such suspicions, that he 
could not listen to the cross-examination by Hetty’s counsel, 
who tried, without result, to elicit evidence that the prisoner 
had shown some movements of maternal affection towards the 
child. The whole time this witness was being examined, Hetty 
had stood as motionless as before : no word seemed to arrest 
her ear. But the sound of the next witness’s voice touched a 
chord that was still sensitive ; she gave a start and a frightened 
look towards him, but immediately turned away her head and 
looked down at her hands as before. This witness was a man, 
a rough peasant. He said — 

“My name is John Olding. I am a laborer, and live at 
Tedd’s Hole, two miles out of Stoniton. A week last Monday, 
towards one o’clock in the afternoon, I was going towards 
Hetton Coppice, and about a quarter of a mile from the cop- 
pice I saw the prisoner, in a red cloak, sitting under a bit of 
a haystack not far off the stile. She got up when she saw me, 
and seemed as if she ’d be walking on the other way. It was 


THE VERDICT. 


449 


a regular road through the fields, and nothing very uncommon 
to see a young woman there, but I took notice of her because 
she looked white and scared. I should have thought she was 
a beggar-woman, only for her good clothes. I thought she 
looked a bit crazy, but it was no business of mine. I stood 
and looked back after her, but she went right on while she 
was in sight. I had to go to the other side of the coppice tc 
look after some stakes. There ’s a road right through it, and 
bits of openings here and there, where the trees have been cut 
down, and some of ’em not carried away. I did n’t go straight 
along the road, but turned off towards the middle, and took a 
shorter way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I had n’t 
got far out of the road into one of the open places, before 
I heard a strange cry. I thought it didn’t come from any 
animal I knew, but I was n’t for stopping to look about just 
then. But it went on, and seemed so strange to me in that 
place, I could n’t help stopping to look. I began to think I 
might make some money of it, if it was a new thing. But I 
had hard work to tell which way it came from, and for a good 
while I kept looking up at the boughs. And then I thought 
it came from the ground; and there was a lot of timber- 
choppings lying about, and loose pieces of turf, and a trunk 
or two. And I looked about among them, but could find noth- 
ing ; and at last the cry stopped. So I was for giving it up, 
and I went on about my business. But when I came back the 
same way pretty nigh an hour after, I could n’t help laying 
down my stakes to have another look. And just as I was 
stooping and laying down the stakes, I saw something odd 
and round and whitish lying on the ground under a nut-bush 
oy the side of me. And I stooped down on hands and knees 
to pick it up. And I saw it was a little baby’s hand.” 

At these words a thrill ran through the court. Hetty 
was visibly trembling : now, for the first time, she seemed to 
be listening to what a witness said. 

“ There was a lot of timber-choppings put together just 
where the ground went hollow, like, under the bush, and the 
hand came out from among them. But there was a hole left 
in one place, and I could see down it, and see the child’s 


vol. I. 


450 


ADAM BEDE. 


head ; and I made haste and did away the turf and the chop* 
pings, and took out the child. It had got comfortable clothes 
on, but its body was cold, and I thought it must be dead. T 
made haste back with it out of the wood, and took it home to 
my wife. She said it was dead, and I ’d better take it to the 
parish and tell the constable. And I said, ‘ I ’ll lay my life 
it’s that young woman’s child as I met going to the coppice.’ 
But she seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And I took 
the child on to Hetton parish and told the constable, and we 
went on to Justice Hardy. And then we went looking after 
the young woman till dark at night, and we went and gave 
information at Stoniton, as they might stop her. And the 
next morning, another constable came to me, to go with him 
to the spot where I found the child. And when we got there, 
there was the prisoner a-sitting against the bush where I found 
the child ; and she cried out when she saw us, but she never 
offered to move. She ’d got a big piece of bread on her lap.” 

Adam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness 
was speaking. He had hidden his face on his arm, which 
rested on the boarding in front of him. It was the supreme 
moment of his suffering : Hetty was guilty : and he was 
silently calling to God for help. He heard no more of the 
evidence, and was unconscious when the case for the prosecu- 
tion had closed — unconscious that Mr. Irwine was in the 
witness-box, telling of Hetty’s unblemished character in her 
own parish, and of the virtuous habits in which she had been 
brought up. This testimony could have no influence on the 
verdict, but it was given as part of that plea for mercy which 
her own counsel would have made if he had been allowed to 
speak for her — a favor not granted to criminals in those 
stern times. 

At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general 
movement round him. The judge had addressed the jury, 
and they were retiring. The decisive moment was not far 
off. Adam felt a shuddering horror that would not let him 
look at Hetty, but she had long relapsed into her blank hard 
indifference. All vye s were strained to look at her, but she 
stood like a statue of dull despair. 


THE VERDICT. 


451 


There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing 
throughout the court during this interval. The desire to 
listen was suspended, and every one had some feeling or 
opinion to express in undertones. Adam, sat looking blankly 
before him, but he did not see the objects that were right in 
front of his eyes — the counsel and attorneys talking with an 
air of cool business, and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversa- 
tion with the judge : did not see Mr. Irwine sit dowm again 
in agitation, and shake his head mournfully when somebody 
whispered to him. The inward action was too intense for 
Adam to take in outward objects until some strong sensation 
roused him. 

It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour, 
before the knock which told that the jury had come to their 
decision, fell as a signal for silence on every ear. It is sub- 
lime — that sudden pause of a great multitude, which tells 
that one soul moves in them all. Deeper and deeper the 
silence seemed to become, like the deepening night, while the 
jurymen’s names were called over, and the prisoner was made 
to hold up her haud, and the jury were asked for their verdict. 

“ Guilty.” 

It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh 
of disappointment from some hearts, that it was followed by 
no recommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court 
was not with the prisoner: the unnaturalness of her crime 
stood out the more harshly by the side of her hard immova- 
bility and obstinate silence. Even the verdict, to distant eyes, 
had not appeared to move her; but those who were near saw 
her trembling. 

The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his 
black cap, and the chaplain in his canonicals was observed 
behind him. Then it deepened again, before the crier had 
had time to command silence. If any Sound were heard, it 
must have been the sound of beating hearts. The judge 
spoke — 

“Hester Sorrel — ” 

The blood rushed to Hetty’s face, and then fled back again, 
as she looked up at the judge, and kept her wide-open eyes 


452 


ADAM BEDE. 


fixed on him, as if fascinated by fear. Adam had not yet 
turned towards her: there was a deep horror, like a great 
gulf, between them. But at the words — “and then to be 
hanged by the neck till you be dead,” a piercing shriek rang 
through the hall. It was Hetty’s shriek. Adam started to 
his feet and stretched out his arms towards her ; but the arms 
could not reach her : she had fallen down in a fainting-fit, ant} 
was carried out of court. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

Arthur’s return. 

When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool, and read 
the letter from his aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand- 
father’s death, his first feeling was, “ Poor grandfather ! I 
wish I could have got to him to be with him when he died. 
He might have felt or wished something at the last that I 
shall never know now. It was a lonely death.” 

It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. 
Pity and softened memory took place of the old antagonism, 
and in his busy thoughts about the future, as the chaise car- 
ried him rapidly along towards the home where he was now 
to be master, there was a continually recurring effort to 
remember anything by which he could show a regard for his 
grandfather’s wishes, without counteracting his own cherished 
aims for the good of the tenants and the estate. But it is not 
in human nature — only in human pretence — for. a young 
man like Arthur, with a fine constitution and fine spirits, 
thinking well of himself, believing that others think well of 
him, and having a very ardent intention to give them more 
and more reason for that good opinion, — it is not possible 
for such a young man, just coming into a splendid estate 
through the death of a very old man whom he was not fond 
of, to feel anything very different from exultant joy. Now 
his real life was beginning ; now he would have room and 


ARTHUR’S RETURN. 


45S 


opportunity for action, and he would use them. He would 
show the Loamshire people what a fine country gentleman 
was ; he would not exchange that career for any other under 
the sun. He felt himself riding over the hills in the breezy 
autumn days, looking after favorite plans of drainage and 
enclosure ; then admired on sombre mornings as the best 
rider on the best horse in the hunt; spoken well of on market 
days as a first-rate landlord ; by-and-by making speeches at 
election dinners, and showing a wonderful knowledge of agrh 
culture ; the patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe 
upbraider of negligent landowners, and withal a jolly fellow 
that everybody must like, — happy faces greeting him every- 
where on his own estate, and the neighboring families on the 
best terms with him. The Irwines should dine with him 
every week, and have their own carriage to come in, for in 
some very delicate way that Arthur would devise, the lay- 
impropriator of the Hayslope tithes would insist on paying 
a couple of hundreds more to the Vicar ; and his aunt should 
be as comfortable as possible, and go on living at the Chase, 
if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish ways, — at least until 
he was married ; and that event lay in the indistinct back- 
ground, for Arthur had not yet seen the woman who would 
play the lady-wife to the first-rate country gentleman. 

These were Arthur’s chief thoughts, so far as a man’s 
thoughts through hours of travelling can be compressed into 
a few sentences, which are only like the list of names telling 
you what are the scenes in a long, long panorama, full of 
color, of detail, and of life. The happy faces Arthur saw 
greeting him were not pale abstractions, but real ruddy faces, 
long familiar to him : Martin Poyser was there — the whole 
Poyser family. 

What — Hetty ? 

Yes ; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty : not quite at ease 
about the past, for a certain burning of the ears would come 
whenever he thought of the scenes with Adam last August, — 
but at ease about her present lot. Mr. Irwine, who had been 
a regular correspondent, telling him all the news about the 
old places and people, had sent him word nearly three months 


454 


ADAM BEDE. 


ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge, as he had 
thought, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and Adam 
himself had both told Mr. Irwine all about it ; — that Adam 
had been deeply in love with Hetty these two years, and that 
now it was agreed they were to be married in March. That 
stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than the Hector 
had thought ; it was really quite an idyllic love affair ; and if 
it had not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have 
liked to describe to Arthur the blushing looks and the simple 
strong words with which the fine honest fellow told his secret. 
He knew Arthur would like to hear that Adam had this sort 
of happiness in prospect. 

“Yes, indeed ! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the 
room to satisfy his renovated life, when he had read that pas- 
sage in the letter. He threw up the windows, he rushed out 
of doors into the December air, and greeted every one who 
spoke to him with an eager gayety, as if there had been news 
of a fresh. Nelson victory. For the first time that day since 
he had come to Windsor, he was in true boyish spirits : the 
load that had been pressing upon him was gone ; the haunting 
fear had vanished. He thought he could conquer his bitter- 
ness towards Adam now — could offer him his hand, and ask 
to be his friend again, in spite of that painful memory which 
would still make his ears burn. He had been knocked down, 
and he had been forced to tell a lie : such things make a scar, do 
what we will. But if Adam were the same again as in the old 
days, Arthur wished to be the same too, and to have Adam 
mixed up with his business and his future, as he had always 
desired before that accursed meeting in August. Nay, he 
would do a great deal more for Adam than he should other- 
wise have done, when he came into the estate ; Hetty’s hus- 
band had a special claim on him — Hetty herself should feel 
that any pain she had suffered through Arthur in the past, 
was compensated to her a hundredfold. For really she could 
not have felt much, since she had so soon made up her mind 
to marry Adam. 

You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty 
made in the panorama of Arthur’s thoughts on his journey 


ARTHUR’S RETURN. 


455 


homeward. It was March now ; they were soon to be mar- 
ried : perhaps they were already married. And now it was 
actually in his power to do a great deal for them. Sweet — 
sweet little Hetty ! The little puss had n’t cared for him half 
as much as he cared for her ; for he was a great fool about 
her still — was almost afraid of seeing her — indeed, had not 
cared much to look at any other woman since he parted from 
her. That little figure coming towards him in the Grove, 
those dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up to kiss 
him — that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months. 
And she would look just the same. It was impossible to 
think how he could meet her : he should .certainly tremble. 
Strange, how long this sort of influence lasts ; for he was cer- 
tainly not in love with Hetty now : he had been earnestly 
desiring, for months, that she should marry Adam, and there 
was nothing that contributed more to his happiness in these 
moments than the thought of their marriage. It was the ex- 
aggerating effect of imagination that made his heart still beat 
a little more quickly at the thought of her. When he saw the 
little thing again as she really was, as Adam’s wife, at work 
quite prosaically in her new home, he should perhaps wonder 
at the possibility of his past feelings. Thank heaven it had 
turned out so well ! He should have plenty of affairs and 
interests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of playing 
the fool again. 

Pleasant the crack of the postboy’s whip ! Pleasant the 
sense of being hurried along in swift ease through English 
scenes, so like those round his own home, only not quite so 
charming. Here was a market-town — very much like Tred- 
dleston — where the arms of the neighboring lord of the manor 
were borne on the sign of the principal inn : then mere fields 
and hedges, their vicinity to a market-town carrying an agree- 
able suggestion of high rent, till the land began to assume a 
trimmer look, the woods were more frequent, and at length a 
white or red mansion looked down from a moderate eminence, 
or allowed him to be aware of its parapet and chimneys among 
the dense-looking masses of oaks and elms — masses reddened 
now with early buds. And close at hand came the village; 


456 


ADAM BEDE. 


the small church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even 
among the faded half-timbered houses ; the old green grave- 
stones with nettles round them ; nothing fresh and bright but 
the children, opening round eyes at the swift post-chaise ; 
nothing noisy and busy but the gaping curs of mysterious 
pedigree. What a much prettier village Hayslope was ! And 
it should not be neglected like this place : vigorous repairs 
should go on everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, 
and travellers in post-chaises, coming along the Bosseter road, 
should do nothing but admire as they went. And Adam Bede 
should superintend all the repairs, for he had a share in 
Burge’s business now, and, if he liked, Arthur would put some 
money into the concern, and buy the old man out in another 
year or two. That was an ugly fault in Arthur’s life, that 
affair last summer; but the future should make amends. 
Many men would have retained a feeling of vindictiveness 
towards Adam ; but he would not — he would resolutely over- 
come all littleness of that kind, for he had certainly been very 
much in the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and 
violent, and had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor 
fellow was in love, and had real provocation. No ; Arthur 
had not an evil feeling in his mind towards any human being : 
he was happy, and would make every one else happy that 
came within his reach. 

And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the 
hill, like a quiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sun- 
light; and opposite to it the great shoulders of the Binton 
Hills, below them the purplish blackness of the hanging 
woods, and at last the pale front of the Abbey, looking out 
from among the oaks of the Chase, as if anxious for the heir’s 
return. “ Poor grandfather ! and he lies dead there. He was 
a young fellow once, coming into the estate, and making his 
plans. So the world goes round ! Aunt Lydia must feel very 
desolate, poor thing ; but she shall be indulged as much as 
she indulges her fat Fido.” 

The wheels of Arthur’s chaise had been anxiously listened 
for at the Chase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had 
already been deferred two days. Before it drew up on the 


ARTHUR’S RETURN. 


457 


gravel of tlie courtyard, all the servants in the house were 
assembled to receive him with a grave, decent welcome, befit- 
ting a house of death. A month ago, perhaps, it would have 
been difficult for them to have maintained a suitable sadness 
in their faces, when Mr. Arthur was come to take possession ; 
but the hearts of the head-servants were heavy that day for 
another cause than the death of the old Squire, and more than 
one of them was longing to be twenty miles away, as Mr. Craig 
was, knowing what was to become of Hetty Sorrel — pretty 
Hetty Sorrel — whom they used to see every week. They had 
the partisanship of household servants who like their places, 
and were not inclined to go the full length of the severe indig- 
nation felt against him by the farming tenants, but rather to 
make excuses for him ; nevertheless, the upper servants, who 
had been on terms of neighborly intercourse with the Poysers 
for many years, could not help feeling that the longed-for 
event of the young Squire’s coming into the estate had been 
robbed of all its pleasantness. 

To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked 
grave and sad : he himself was very much touched on seeing 
them all again, and feeling that he was in a new relation to 
them. It was that sort of pathetic emotion which has more 
pleasure than pain in it — which is perhaps one of the most 
delicious of all states to a good-natured man, conscious of the 
power to satisfy his good-nature. His heart swelled agreeably 
as he said — 

“ Well, Mills, how is my aunt ? ” 

But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house 
ever since the death, came forward to give deferential greet- 
ings and answer all questions, and Arthur walked with him 
towards the library, where his aunt Lydia was expecting him. 
Aunt Lydia was the only person in the house who knew noth- 
ing about Hetty : her sorrow as a maiden daughter was un- 
mixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about 
funeral arrangements and her own future lot ; and, after the 
manner of women, she mourned for the father who had made 
her life important, all the more because she had a secret sense 
that there was little mourning for him in other hearts 


458 


ADAM BEDE. 


But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he 
had ever done in his life before. 

“ Dear aunt/’ he said, affectionately, as he held her hand, 
“ your loss is the greatest of all, but you must tell me how to 
try and make it up to you all the rest of your life.” 

“ It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur,” poor Miss 
Lydia began, pouring out her little plaints ; and Arthur sat 
down to listen with impatient patience. When a pause came, 
he said — 

“Now, aunt, I ’ll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to 
go to my own room, and then I shall come and give full atten- 
tion to everything.” 

“ My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills ? ” he said 
to the butler, who seemed to be lingering uneasily about the 
entrance-hall. 

“ Yes, sir, and there are letters for you ; they are all laid on 
the writiug-table in your dressing-room.” 

On entering the small anteroom which was called a dressing- 
room, but which Arthur really used only to lounge and write 
in, he just cast his eyes on the writing-table, and saw that 
there were several letters and packets lying there ; but he was 
in the uncomfortable dusty condition of a man who has had 
a long hurried journey, and he must really refresh himself 
by attending to his toilet a little, before he read his letters. 
Pym was there, making everything ready for him ; and soon, 
with a delightful freshness about him, as if he were prepared 
to begin a new day, he went back into his dressing-room to 
open his letters. The level rays of the low afternoon sun 
entered directly at the window, and as Arthur seated himself 
in his velvet chair with their pleasant warmth upon him, he 
was conscious of that quiet well-being which perhaps you and 
I have felt on a sunny afternoon, when, in our brightest youth 
and health, life has opened a new vista for us, and long to- 
morrows of activity have stretched before us like a lovely 
plain which there was no need for hurrying to look at, because 
it was all our own. 

The top letter was placed with its address upwards : it was 
in Mr. Irwine’s handwriting, Arthur saw at once ; and below 


ARTHUR’S RETURN. 


459 


the address was written, “To be delivered as soon as he ar- 
rives.” Nothing could have been less surprising to him than 
a letter from Mr. Irwine at that moment : of course there was 
something he wished Arthur to know earlier than it was possi- 
ble for them to see each other. At such a time as that it was 
quite natural that Irwine should have something pressing to 
say. Arthur broke the seal with an agreeable anticipation of 
soon seeing the writer. 

“I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I 
may then be at Stoniton, whither I am called by the most painful duty 
it has ever been given me to perform ; and it is right that you should 
know what I have to tell you without delay. 

“ I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the retribu- 
tion that is now falling on you: any other words that I could write at 
this moment must be weak and unmeaning by the side of those in 
which I must tell you the simple fact. 

“Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the 
crime of child-murder. ’ * 

Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair, and 
stood for a single minute with a sense of violent convulsion in 
his whole frame, as if the life were going out of him with 
horrible throbs ; but the next minute he had rushed out of the 
room, still clutching the letter — he was hurrying along the 
corridor, and down the stairs into the hall. Mills was still 
there, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like a hunted 
man across the hall and out along the gravel. The butler 
hurried out after him as fast as his elderly limbs could run *. 
he guessed, he knew, where the young Squire was going. 

When Mills got to the stables a horse was being saddled, 
and Arthur was forcing himself to read the remaining words 
of the letter. He thrust it into his pocket as the horse was 
led up to him, and at that moment caught sight of Mills* 
anxious face in front of him. 

“Tell them I ; m gone — gone to Stoniton,” he said in a 
muffled tone of agitation — sprang into the saddle, and set off 
at a gallop. 


460 


ADAM BEDE. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

IN THE PRISON. 

Near sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was stand- 
ing with his back against the smaller entrance-door of Stoniton 
jail, saying a few last words to the departing chaplain. The 
chaplain walked away, but the elderly gentleman stood still, 
looking down on the pavement, and stroking his chin with a 
ruminating air, when he was roused by a sweet clear woman’s 
voice, saying — 

“ Can I get into the prison, if you please ? ” 

He turned his head, and looked fixedly at the speaker tor a 
few moments without answering. 

“I have seen you before,” he said at last. “Do you re- 
member preaching on the village green at Hayslope in Loam- 
shire ? ” 

“Yes, sir, surely. Are you the gentleman that stayed to 
listen on horseback ? ” 

“ Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison ? ” 

“ I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has 
been condemned to death — and to stay with her, if I may be 
permitted. Have you power in the prison, sir ? ” 

“ Yes ; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. 
But did you know this criminal, Hetty Sorrel ? ” 

“ Yes, we are kin : my own aunt married her uncle, Martin 
Poyser. But I was away at Leeds, and did n’t know of this 
great trouble in time to get here before to-day. I entreat you, 
sir, for the love of our heavenly Rather, to let me go to her 
and stay with her.” 

“How did you know she was condemned to death, if you 
are only just come from Leeds?” 

“ I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back 
to his home now, and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I 
beseech you to get leave for me to be with her.” 

“ What ! have you courage to stay all night in the prison ? 


IN THE PRISON. 461 

She is very sullen, and will scarcely make answer when she 
is spoken to.” 

“ Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don’t 
let us delay.” 

“ Come, then,” said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gain- 
ing admission ; “ I know you have a key to unlock hearts.” 

Dinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon 
as they were within the prison court, from the habit she had 
of throwing them off when she preached or prayed, or visited 
the sick ; and when they entered the jailer’s room, she laid 
them down on a chair unthinkingly. There was no agitation 
visible in her, but a deep concentrated calmness, as if, even 
when she was speaking, her soul was in prayer reposing on an 
unseen support. 

After speaking to the jailer, the magistrate turned to her 
and said, “ The turnkey will take you to the prisoner’s cell, 
and leave you there for the night, if you desire it ; but you 
can’t have a light during the night — it is contrary to rules. 
My name is Colonel Townley : if I can help you in anything, 
ask the jailer for my address, and come to me. I take some 
interest in this Hetty Sorrel, for the sake of that fine fellow, 
Adam Bede : I happened to see him at Hayslope the same 
evening I heard you preach, and recognized him in court to* 
day, ill as he looked.” 

“ Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him ? Can you 
tell me where he lodges ? For my poor uncle was too much 
weighed down with trouble to remember.” 

“ Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. 
He lodges over a tinman’s shop, in the street on the right 
hand as you entered the prison. There is an old schoolmaster 
with him. How, good-by : I wish you success.” 

“ Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you.” 

As Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the 
solemn evening light seemed to make the walls higher than 
they were by day, and the sweet pale face in the cap was more 
than ever like a white flower on this background of gloom. 
The turnkey looked askance at her all the while, but never 
spoke : he somehow felt that the sound of his own rude voicxd 


462 


ADAM BEDE. 


would be grating just then. He struck a light as they entered 
the dark corridor leading to the condemned cell, and then said 
in his most civil tone, <( It’ll be pretty nigh dark in the cell 
a’ready ; but I can stop with my light a bit, if you like . 99 

“Nay, friend, thank you,” said Dinah. “I wish to go in 
alone.” 

“ As you like,” said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the 
lock, and opening the door wide enough to admit Dinah. A 
jet of light from his lantern fell on the opposite corner of the 
cell, where Hetty was sitting on her straw pallet with her face 
buried in her knees. It seemed as if she were asleep, and 
yet the grating of the lock would have been likely to waken 
her. 

The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was 
that of the evening sky, through the small high grating — • 
enough to discern human faces by. Dinah stood still for a 
minute, hesitating to speak, because Hetty might be asleep ; ! 
and looking at the motionless heap with a yearning heart. 
Then she said, softly — 

“Hetty!” 

There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty’s frame 
— a start such as might have been produced by a feeble elec- 
trical shock ; but she did not look up. Dinah spoke again, in 
a tone made stronger by irrepressible emotion — 

“ Hetty ... it ’s Dinah.” 

Again there was a slight, startled movement through Hetty’s 
frame, and without uncovering her face, she raised her head a 
little, as if listening. 

“ Hetty . . . Dinah is come to you.” 

After a moment’s pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and 
timidly from her knees, and raised her eyes. The two pale j 
faces were looking at each other : one with a wild hard despair j 
in it, the other full of sad, yearning love. Dinah unconsciously I 
opened her arms and stretched them out. 

“ Don’t you know me, Hetty ? Don’t you remember Dinah ? 
Did you think I would n’t come to you in trouble ? ” 

Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah’s face, — at first like an 
animal that gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof. 


IN THE PRISON. 


463 

x ‘I’m come to be with you, Hetty — not to leave you — to 
stay with you — to be your sister to the last.” 

Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step 
forward, and was clasped in Dinah’s arms. 

They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the 
impulse to move apart again. Hetty, without any distinct 
thought of it, hung on this something that was come to clasp 
her now, while she was sinking helpless in a dark gulf ; and 
Dinah felt a deep joy in the first sign that her love was wel- 
comed by the wretched lost one. The light got fainter as they 
stood, and when at last they sat down on the straw pallet 
together, their faces had become indistinct. 

Not a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping fora sponta- 
, neous word from Hetty ; but she sat in the same dull despair, 
only clutching the hand that held hers, and leaning her cheek 
against Dinah’s. It was the human contact she clung to, but 
she was not the less sinking into the dark gulf. 

Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who 
it was that sat beside her. She thought suffering and fear 
might have driven the poor sinner out of her mind. But it 
■ was borne in upon her, as she afterwards said, that she must 
not hurry God’s work: we are over-hasty to speak — as if God 
did not manifest himself by our silent feeling, and make his 
| love felt through ours. She did not know how long they sat 
in that way, but it got darker and darker, till there was only 
I a pale patch of light on the opposite wall : all the rest was 
darkness. But she felt the Divine presence more and more, 
— nay, as if she herself were a part of it, and it was the 
Divine pity that was beating in her heart, and was willing 
: the rescue of this helpless one. At last she was prompted 
to speak, and find out how far Hetty was conscious of the 
: present. 

“ Hetty,” she said, gently, “ do you know who it is that sits 
j by your side ? ” 

“Yes,” Hetty answered, slowly, “it’s Dinah.” 

“ And do you remember the time when we were at the Hall 
Farm together, and that night when I told you to be sure and 
think of me as a friend in trouble ? ” 


464 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Yes,” said Hetty. Thei , after a pause, she added, “But 
you can do nothing for me. You can’t make ’em do anything. 
They ’ll hang me o’ Monday — it ’s Friday now.” 

As Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah, 
shuddering. 

“ No, Hetty, I can’t save you from that death. But is n’t 
the suffering less hard when you have somebody with you, 
that feels for you — that you can speak to, and say what’s in 
your heart ? ... Yes, Hetty : you lean on me : you are glad 
to have me with you.” 

“ You won’t leave me, Dinah ? You ’ll keep close to me ? ” 

“No, Hetty, I won’t leave you. I’ll stay with you to the 
last. . . . But, Hetty, there is some one else in this cell besides 
me, some one close to you.” 

Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, “ Who ? ” 

“ Some one who has been with you through all your hours 
of sin and trouble — who has known every thought you have 
had — has seen where you went, where you lay down and rose 
up again, and all the deeds you have tried to hide in darkness. 
And on Monday, when I can’t follow you, — when my arms 
can’t reach you, — when death has parted us, — He who is with 
us now, and knows all, will be with you then. It makes no 
difference — whether we live or die, we are in the presence of 
God.” 

“ Oh, Dinah, won’t nobody do anything for me ? Will they 
hang me for certain ? . . . I would n’t mind if they ’d let me 
live.” 

“My poor Hetty, death is very dreadful to you. I know 
it’s dreadful. But if you had a friend to take care of you 
after death — in that other world — some one whose love is 
greater than mine — who can do everything ? ... If God our 
Father was your friend, and was willing to save you from sin 
and suffering, so as you should neither know wicked feelings 
nor pain again ? If you could believe he loved you and would 
help you, as you believe I love you and will help you, it 
would n’t be so hard to die on Monday, would it ? ” 

“But I can’t know anything about it,” Hetty said, wiih 
sullen sadness. 


IN THE PRISON. 


465 


“ Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against 
him, by trying to hide the truth. God’s love and mercy can 
overcome all things — our ignorance, and weakness, and all 
the burthen of our past wickedness — all things but our wilful 
sin ; sin that we cling to, and will not give up. You believe 
in my love and pity for you, Hetty ; but if you had not let me 
come near you, if you would n’t have looked at me or spoken 
to me, you ’d have shut me out from helping you : I could n’t 
have made you feel my love ; I could n’t have told you what I 
felt for you. Don’t shut God’s love out in that way, by cling- 
ing to sin. . . . He can’t bless you while you have one false- 
hood in your soul ; his pardoning mercy can’t reach you until 
you open your heart to him, and say, ‘ I have done this great 
wickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin.’ While 
you cling to one sin and will not part with it, it must drag 
you down to misery after death, as it has dragged you to misery 
here in this world, my poor, poor Hetty. It is sin that brings 
dread, and darkness, and despair : there is light and blessed- 
ness for us as soon as we cast it off : God enters our souls then, 
and teaches us, and brings us strength and peace. Cast it off 
now, Hetty — now: confess the wickedness you have done — 
the sin you have been guilty of against your heavenly Father. 
Let us kneel down together, for we are in the presence of God.” 

Hetty obeyed Dinah’s movement, and sank on her knees. 
They still held each other’s hands, and there was long silence. 
Then Dinah said — 

“ Hetty, we are before God : he is waiting for you to tell 
the truth.” 

Still there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of 
beseeching — 

‘ “ Dinah . . . help me ... I can’t feel anything like you 
. . . my heart is hard.” 

Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in 
her voice : — 

« Jesus, thou present Saviour ! Thou hast known the 
depths of all sorrow : thou hast entered that black darkness 
where God is not, and hast uttered the cry of the forsaken. 
Gome, Lord, and gather of the fruits of thy travail and thy 

VOL. I. 


466 


ADAM BEDE. 


pleading, stretch forth thy hand, thou who art mighty tc 
save to the uttermost, and rescue this lost one. She is clothed 
round with thick darkness : the fetters of her sin are upon her, 
and she cannot stir to come to thee : she can only feel her 
heart is hard, and she is helpless. She cries to me, thy weak 
creature. . . . Saviour ! it is a blind cry to thee. Hear it ! 
Pierce the darkness ! Look upon her with thy face of love 
and sorrow, that thou didst turn on him who denied thee j 
and melt her hard heart. 

“ See, Lord, — I bring her, as they of old brought the sick 
and helpless, and thou didst heal them : I bear her on my 
arms and carry her before thee. Fear and trembling have 
taken hold on her ; but she trembles only at the pain and 
death of the body : breathe upon her thy life-giving Spirit, 
and put a new fear within her — the fear of her sin. Make 
her dread to keep the accursed thing within her soul : make 
her feel the presence of the living God, who beholds all the 
past, to whom the darkness is as noonday ; who is waiting 
now, at the eleventh hour, for her to turn to him, and confess 
her sin, and cry for mercy — now, before the night of death 
comes, and the moment of pardon is forever fled, like yester- 
day that returneth not. 

“ Saviour ! it is yet time — time to snatch this poor soul 
from everlasting darkness. I believe — I believe in thy infi- 
nite love. What is my love or my pleading ? It is quenched 
in thine. I can only clasp her in my weak arms, and urge her 
with my weak pity. Thou — thou wilt breathe on the dead 
soul, and it shall arise from the unanswering sleep of death. 

“Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness, com- 
ing, like the morning, with healing on thy wings. The marks 
of thy agony are upon thee — I see, I see thou art able and 
willing to save — thou wilt not let her perish forever. 

“ Come, mighty Saviour ! let the dead hear thy voice ; let 
the eyes of the blind be opened : let her see that God encom- 
passes her ; let her tremble at nothing but at the sin that cuts 
her off from him. Melt the hard heart ; unseal the closed 
lips : make her cry with her whole soul, ‘ Father, I have 
sinned* — ” 


IN THE PRISON. 


467 


“ Dinah/’ Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round 
Dinah’s neck, “I will speak ... I will tell ... I won’t hide 
it any more.” 

But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her 
gently from her knees, and seated her on the pallet again, 
sitting down by her side. It was a long time before the con- 
vulsed throat was quiet, and even then they sat some time in 
stillness and darkness, holding each other’s hands. At last 
Hetty whispered — 

“ I did do it, Dinah ... I buried it in the wood . . . the 
little baby . . . and it cried ... I heard it cry . . . ever 
such a way off . . . all night . . . and I went back because 
it cried.” 

She paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading 
tone. 

“But I thought perhaps it wouldn’t die — there might 
somebody find it. I didn’t kill it — I didn’t kill it myself. 
I put it down there and covered it up, and when I came back 
it was gone. ... It was because I was so very miserable, 
Dinah ... I didn’t know where to go . . . and I tried to 
kill myself before, and I could n’t. Oh, I tried so to drown 
myself in the pool, and I could n’t. I went to Windsor — I 
ran away — did you know ? I went to find him, as he might 
take care of me ; and he was gone ; and then I did n’t kno^\ 
what to do. I dared n’t go back home again — I could n’t 
bear it. I could n’t have bore to look at anybody, for they ’d 
have scorned me. I thought o’ you sometimes, and thought 
I ’d come to you, for I did n’t think you ’d be cross with me, 
and cry shame on me : I thought I could tell you. But then 
the other folks ’ud come to know it at last, and I could n’t 
bear that. It was partly thinking o’ you made me come 
toward Stoniton ; and, besides, I was so frightened at going 
wandering about till I was a beggar-woman, and had nothing ; 
and sometimes it seemed as if I must go back to the Farm 
sooner than that. Oh, it was so dreadful, Dinah ... I was 
so miserable ... I wished I ’d never been born into this 
world. I should never like to go into the green fields again— 
I hated ’em so in my misery.” 


468 


ADAM BEDE. 


Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too 
strong upon her for words. 

“ And then I got to Stoniton, and I began to feel frightened 
that night, because I was so near home. And then the little 
baby was born, when I didn’t expect it; and the thought 
came into my mind that I might get rid of it, and go home 
again. The thought came all of a sudden, as I was lying in 
the bed, and it got stronger and stronger ... I longed so 
to go back again ... I could n’t bear being so lonely, and 
coming to beg for want. And it gave me strength and resolu- 
tion to get up and dress myself. I felt I must do it ... I 
did n’t know how ... I thought I ’d find a pool, if I could, 
like that other, in the corner of the field, in the dark. And 
when the woman went out, I felt as if I was strong enough 
to do anything ... I thought I should get rid of all my 
misery, and go back home, and never let ’em know why I ran 
away. I put on my bonnet and shawl, and went out into the 
dark street, with the baby under my cloak ; and I walked fast 
till I got into a street a good way off, and there was a public, 
and I got some warm stuff to drink and some bread. And I 
walked on and on, and I hardly felt the ground I trod on ; and 
it got lighter, for there came the moon — Oh, Dinah, it fright- 
ened me when it first looked at me out o’ the clouds — it never 
looked so before ; and I turned out of the road into the fields, 
for I was afraid o’ meeting anybody with the moon shining on 
me. And I came to a haystack, where I thought I could lie 
down and keep myself warm all night. There was a place cut 
into it, where I could make me a bed ; and I lay comfortable, 
and the baby was warm against me ; and I must have gone to 
sleep for a good while, for when I woke it was morning, but 
not very light, and the baby was crying. And I saw a wood 
a little way off ... I thought there ’d perhaps be a ditch or 
a pond there . . . and it was so early I thought I could hide 
the child there, and get a long way off before folks was up. 
And then I thought I ’d go home — I ’d get rides in carts and 
go home, and tell ’em I ’d been to try and see for a place, and 
could n’t get one. I longed so for it, Dinah, I longed so to 
be safe at home. I don’t know how I felt about the baby, 


IN THE PRISON. 


469 


I seemed to hate it — it was like a heavy weight hanging round 
my neck ; and yet its crying went through me, and I dared n’t 
look at its little hands and face. But I went on to the wood, 
and I walked about, but there was no water — ” 

Hetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and 
when she began again, it was in a whisper. 

“ I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, 
and I sat down on the trunk of a tree to think what I should 
do. And all of a sudden I saw a hole under the nut-tree, like 
a little grave. And it darted into me like lightning — I ’d lay 
the baby there, and cover it with the grass and the chips. I 
could n’t kill it any other way. And I ’d done it in a minute ; 
and, oh, it cried so, Dinah — I could n't cover it quite up — I 
thought perhaps somebody ’ud come and take care of it, and 
then it would n’t die. And I made haste out of the wood, but 
I could hear it crying all the while ; and when I got out into 
the fields, it was as if I was held fast — I could n’t go away, 
for all I wanted so to go. And I sat against the haystack to 
watch if anybody ’ud come : I was very hungry, and I ’d only 
a bit of bread left ; but I could n’t go away. And after ever 
such a while — hours and hours — the man came — him in a 
smock-frock, and he looked at me so, I was frightened, and I 
made haste and went on. I thought he was going to the 
wood, and would perhaps find the baby. And I went right 
on, till I came to a village, a long way off from the wood ; and 
I was very sick, and faint, and hungry. I got something to 
eat there, and bought a loaf. But I was frightened to stay. 
I heard the baby crying, and thought the other folks heard it 
too, — and I went on. But I was so tired, and it was getting 
towards dark. And at last, by the roadside there was a barn 

ever such a way off any house — like the barn in Abbot’s 

Close; and I thought I could go in there and hide myself 
among the hay and straw, and nobody ’ud be likely to come. 
I went in, and it was half full o’ trusses of straw, and there 
was some hay, too. And I made myself a bed, ever so far 
behind, where nobody could find me and I was so tired and 
weak, I went to sleep. . . . But oh, the baby’s crying kept 
waking me ; and I thought that man as looked at me so was 


m 


ADAM BEDE. 


come and laying hold of me. But I must have slept a long 
while at last, though I didn’t know; for when I got up and 
went out of the barn, I did n’t know whether it was night 
or morning. But it was morning, for it kept getting lighter ; 
and I turned back the way I’d come. I couldn’t help it, 
Dinah ; it was the baby’s crying made me go : and yet I was 
frightened to death. I thought that man in the smock-frock 
’ud see me, and know I put the baby there. But I went on, 
for all that: I ’d left off thinking about going home — it had 
gone out o’ my mind. I saw nothing but that place in the 
wood where I ’d buried the baby ... I see it now. O Dinah ! 
shall I allays see it ? ” 

Hetty clung round Dinah, and shuddered again. The 
silence seemed long before she went on. 

“ I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the 
wood. ... I knew the way to the place . . . the place 
against the nut-tree ; and I could hear it crying at every step. 
... I thought it was alive. ... I don’t know whether 
I was frightened or glad ... I don’t know what I felt. 
I only know I was in the wood, and heard the cry. I don’t 
know what I felt till I saw the baby was gone. And when 
I ’d put it there, I thought I should like somebody to find 
it, and save it from dying ; but when I saw it was gone, I was 
struck like a stone, with fear. I never thought o’ stirring, 
I felt so weak. I knew I could n’t run away, and everybody 
as saw me ’ud know about the baby. My heart went like a 
stone : I could n’t wish or try for anything ; it seemed like as 
if I should stay there forever, and nothing ’ud ever change 
But they came and took me away.” 

Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was 
still something behind ; and Dinah waited, for her heart was 
so full, that tears must come before words. At last Hetty 
burst out, with a sob — 

“ Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying and 
the place in the wood, now I ’ve told everything ? ” 

“ Let us pray, poor sinner : let us fall on our knees again, 
and pray to the God of al] mercy.” 


THE HOURS OF SUSPENSE. 


m 


CHAPTER XLVL 

THE HOURS OF SUSPENSE. 

On Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were 
ringing for morning service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam’s 
room, after a short absence, and said — 

“ Adam, here ’s a visitor wants to see you.” 

Adam was seated with his back towards the door, but he 
started up and turned round instantly, with a flushed face and 
an eager look. His face was even thinner and more worn than 
we have seen it before, but he was washed and shaven this 
Sunday morning. 

“ Is it any news ? ” he said. 

“ Keep yourself quiet, my lad,” said Bartle ; “ keep quiet. 
It’s not what you’re thinking of: it’s the young Methodist 
woman come from the prison. She’s at the bottom o’ the 
stairs, and wants to know if you think well to see her, for she 
has something to say to you about that poor castaway; but 
she wouldn’t come in without your leave, she said. She 
thought you ’d perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These 
preaching women are not so back’ard commonly,” Bartle mut- 
tered to himself. 

“ Ask her to come in,” said Adam. 

He was standing with his face towards the door, and as 
Dinah entered, lifting up her mild gray eyes towards him, she 
saw at once the great change that had come since the day 
when she had looked up at the tall man in the cottage. There 
was a trembling in her clear voice as she put her hand into his, 
and said — 

“ Be comforted, Adam Bede : the Lord has not forsaken her.” 

“ Bless you for coming to her,” Adam said. " Mr. Massey 
brought me word yesterday as you was come.” 

They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood 
before each other in silence ; and Bartle Massey, too, who had 
put on his spectacles, seemed transfixed, examining Dinah’s 


472 


ADAM BEDE. 


face. But he recovered himself first, and said, “Sit down, 
young woman, sit down,” placing the chair for her, and retir- 
ing to his old seat on the bed. 

“ Thank you, friend ; I won’t sit down,” said Dinah, “ for I 
must hasten back : she entreated me not to stay long away. 
What I came for, Adam Bede, was to pray you to go and see 
the poor sinner, and bid her farewell. She desires to ask your 
forgiveness, and it is meet you should see her to-day, rather 
than in the early morning, when the time will be short.” 

Adam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair 
again. 

“ It won’t be,” he said : “ it ’ll be put off — there ’ll perhaps 
come a pardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope : he said, I 
needn’t quite give it up.” 

“ That ’s a blessed thought to me,” said Dinah, her eyes fill- 
ing with tears. “ It ’s a fearful thing hurrying her soul away 
so fast.” 

“But let what will be,” she added, presently, “you will 
surely come, and let her speak the words that are in her heart. 
Although her poor soul is very dark, and discerns little beyond 
the things of the flesh, she is no longer hard : she is contrite 
— she has confessed all to me. The pride of her heart has 
given way, and she leans on me for help, and desires to be 
taught. This fills me with trust ; for I cannot but think that 
the brethren sometimes err in measuring the Divine love by 
the sinner’s knowledge. She is going to write a letter to the 
friends at the Hall Farm for me to give them when she is 
gone; and when I told her you were here, she said, ‘I should 
like to say good-by to Adam, and ask him to forgive me.’ You 
will come, Adam ? — perhaps you will even now come back 
with me.” 

“ I can’t,” Adam said : “ I can’t say good-by, while there ’s 
any hope. I ’m listening, and listening — I can’t think o’ 
nothing but that. It can’t be as she’ll die that shameful 
death — I can’t bring my mind to it.” 

He got up from his chair again, and looked away out of the 
window, while Dinah stood with compassionate patience. In 
a minute or two he turned round and said — 


THE HOURS OF SUSPENSE. 


473 


I will come, Dinah . . . to-morrow morning ... if it must 
be. I may have more strength to bear it, if I know it must 
be. Tell her, I forgive her; tell her I will come — at the 
very last.” 

“ I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart,” 
said Dinah. “ I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful 
how she clings now, and was not willing to let me out of her 
sight. She used never to make any return to my affection 
before, but now tribulation has opened her heart. Farewell, 
Adam : our heavenly Father comfort you, and strengthen you 
to bear all things.” Dinah put out her hand, and Adam pressed 
it in silence. 

Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the 
door for her, but before he could reach it, she had said, gently, 
“ Farewell, friend,” and was gone, with her light step, down 
the stairs. 

“Well,” said Bartle, taking off his spectacles, and putting 
them into his pocket, “ if there must be women to make trouble 
in the world, it ’s but fair there should be women to be com- 
forters under it ; and she ’s one — she ’s one. It ’s a pity she ’s 
a Methodist; but there’s no getting a woman without some 
foolishness or other.” 

Adam never went to bed that night : the excitement of sus- 
pense, heightening with every hour that brought him nearer 
the fatal moment, was too great ; and in spite of his entreaties, 
in spite of his promises that he would be perfectly quiet, the 
schoolmaster watched too. 

“ What does it matter to me, lad ? ” Bartle said : " a night’s 
sleep more or less? I shall sleep long enough, by-and-by, 
underground. Let me keep thee company in trouble while 
I can.” 

It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam 
would sometimes get up, and tread backwards and forwards 
along the short space from wall to wall ; then he would sit 
down and hide his face, and no sound would be heard but the 
ticking of the watch on the table, or the falling of a cinder 
■from the fire which the schoolmaster carefully tended. Some- 
cxmes he would burst out into vehement speech — 


474 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ If I could ha’ done anything to save her — if my hearing 
anything would ha’ done any good . . . but t’ have to sit still, 
and know it, and do nothing ... it ’s hard for a man to bear 
. . . and to think o’ what might ha’ been now, if it had n’t 
been for him. ... 0 God, it ’s the very day we should ha’ 
been married ! ” 

“ Ay, my lad,” said Bartle, tenderly, u it ’s heavy — it ’s 
heavy. But you must remember this : when you thought of 
marrying her, you ’d a notion she ’d got another sort of a na- 
ture inside her. You did n’t think she could have got hardened 
in that little while to do what she ’s done.” 

“ I know — I know that,” said Adam. “ I thought she was 
loving and tender-hearted, and wouldn’t tell a lie, or act 
deceitful. How could I think any other way ? And if he ’d 
never come near her, and I ’d married her, and been loving to 
her, and took care of her, she might never ha’ done anything 
bad. What would it ha’ signified — my having a bit o’ trouble 
with her ? It ’ud ha’ been nothing to this.” 

“ There ’s no knowing, my lad — there ’s no knowing what 
might have come. The smart ’s bad for you to bear now : 
you must have time — you must have time. But I ’ve that 
opinion of you, that you’ll rise above it all, and be a man 
again ; and there may good come out of this that we don’t 
see.” 

“ Good come out of it ! ” said Adam, passionately. “ That 
does n’t alter th’ evil : her ruin can’t be undone. I hate that 
talk o’ people, as if there was a way o’ making amends for 
everything. They ’d more need be brought to see as the wrong 
they do can never be altered. When a man ’s spoiled his fellow- 
creatur’s life, he ’s no right to comfort himself with thinking 
good may come out of it : somebody else’s good does n’t alter 
her shame and misery.” 

“ Well, lad, well,” said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely 
in contrast with his usual peremptoriness and impatience of 
contradiction, “ it ’s likely enough I talk foolishness : I ’m 
an old fellow, and it ’s a good many years since I was in 
trouble myself. It ’s easy finding reasons why other folks 
should be patient.” 


THE HOUKS OF SUSPENSE. 


475 


u Mr. Massey/’ said Adam, penitently, a I ’m very hot and 
hasty. I owe you something different ; but you must n’t take 
it ill of me.” 

“ Not I, lad — not I.” 

So the night wore on in agitation, till the chill dawn 
and the growing light brought the tremulous quiet that 
comes on the brink of despair. There would soon be no more 
suspense. 

“ Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, 
when he saw the hand of his watch at six. " If there ’s any 
news come, we shall hear about it.” 

The people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direc- 
tion, through the streets. Adam tried not to think where they 
were going, as they hurried past him in that short space be- 
tween his lodging and the prison gates. He was thankful 
when the gates shut him in from seeing those eager people. 

No ; there was no news come — no pardon — no reprieve. 

Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could 
bring himself to send word to Dinah that he was come. But 
a voice caught his ear : he could not shut out the words. 

“ The cart is to set off at half-past seven.” 

It must be said — the last good-by : there was no help. 

In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the 
cell. Dinah had sent him word that she could not come to 
him, she could not leave Hetty one moment ; but Hetty was 
prepared for the meeting. 

He could not see her when he entered, for agitation dead- 
ened his senses, and the dim cell was almost dark to him. He 
stood a moment after the door closed behind him, trembling 
and stupefied. 

But he began to see through the dimness — to see the dark 
eyes lifted up to him once more, but with no smile in them. 
0 God, how sad they looked ! The last time they had met his 
was when he parted from her with his heart full of joyous, hope- 
ful love, and they looked out with a tearful smile from a pink, 
dimpled, childish face. The face was marble now; the sweet 
lips were pallid, and half-open, and quivering; the dimples 
were all gone — all but one, that never went ; and the eyes — 


476 


ADAM BEDE. 


Oh ! the worst of all was the likeness they had to Hetty’s. 
They were Hetty’s eyes looking at him with that mournful gaze, 
as if she had come back to him from the dead to tell him of 
her misery. 

She was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against 
Dinah’s. It seemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay 
in that contact ; and the pitying love that shone out from 
Dinah’s face looked like a visible pledge of the Invisible 
Mercy. 

When the sad eyes met — when Hetty and Adam looked at 
each other, she felt the change in him too, and it seemed to 
strike her with fresh fear. It was the first time she had seen 
any being whose face seemed to reflect the change in herself : 
Adam was a new image of the dreadful past and the dreadful 
present. She trembled more as she looked at him. 

“ Speak to him, Hetty,” Dinah said ; “ tell him what is in 
your heart.” 

Hetty obeyed her, like a little child. 

“ Adam ...I’m very sorry ... I behaved very wrong to 
you . . . will you forgive me . . . before I die ? ” 

Adam answered with a half-sob : “ Yes, I forgive thee, Hetty • 
I forgave thee long ago.” 

It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the 
anguish of meeting Hetty’s eyes in the first moments ; but 
the sound of her voice uttering these penitent words touched 
a chord which had been less strained : there was a sense of 
relief from what was becoming unbearable, and the rare tears 
came — they had never come before, since he had hung on 
Seth’s neck in the beginning of his sorrow. 

Hetty made an involuntary movement towards him ; some 
of the love that she had once lived in the midst of was come 
near her again. She kept hold of Dinah’s hand, but she went 
up to Adam and said, timidly — 

“ Will you kiss me again, Adam, for all I’ve been so 
wicked ? ” 

Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, 
and they gave each other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a 
lifelong parting. 


THE LAST MOMENT. 


477 


“And tell him,” Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, 
“ tell him ... for there ’s nobody else to tell him ... as I 
went after him and could n’t find him . . . and I hated him 
and cursed him once . . . but Dinah says, I should forgive 
him . . . and I try . . . for else God won’t forgive me.” 

There was a noise at the door of the cell now — the key 
was being turned in the lock, and when the door opened, 
Adam saw indistinctly that there were several faces there : 
he was too agitated to see more — even to see that Mr. 
Irwine’s face was one of them. He felt that the last prepara- 
tions were beginning, and he could stay no longer. Room 
was silently made for him to depart, and he went to his 
chamber in loneliness, leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see 
the end. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE LAST MOMENT. 

It was a sight that some people remembered better even 
than their own sorrows — the sight in that gray clear morn- 
ing, when the fatal cart with the two young women in it was 
descried by the waiting watching multitude, cleaving its way 
towards the hideous symbol of a deliberately inflicted sudden 
death. 

All Stoniton had heard of Dinah Morris, the young Method- 
ist woman who had brought the obstinate criminal to con- 
fess, and there was as much eagerness to see her as to see the 
wretched Hetty. 

But Dinah was hardly conscious of the multitude. When 
Hetty had caught sight of the vast crowd in the distance, she 
had clutched Dinah convulsively. 

“Close your eyes, Hetty,” Dinah said, “and let us pray 
without ceasing to God.” 

And in a low voice, as the cart went slowly along through 
the midst of the gazing crowd, she poured forth her soul with 
the wrestling intensity of a last pleading, for the trembling 


478 


ADAM BEDE. 


creature that clung to her and. clutched her as the only visible 
sign of love and pity. 

Dinah did not know that the crowd was silent, gazing at her 
with a sort of awe — she did not even know how near they 
were to the fatal spot, when the cart stopped, and she shrank 
appalled at a loud shout hideous to her ear, like a vast yell 
of demons. Hetty’s shriek mingled with the sound, and they 
clasped each other in mutual horror. 

But it was not a shout of execration — not a yell of ex- 
ultant cruelty. 

It was a shout of sudden excitement at the appearance of a 
horseman cleaving the crowd at full gallop. The horse is hot 
and distressed, but answers to the desperate spurring; the 
rider looks as if his eyes were glazed by madness, and he 
saw nothing but what was unseen by others. See, he has 
something in his hand — he is holding it up as if it were a 
signal. 

The Sheriff knows him : it is Arthur Donnithorne, carrying 
in his hand a hard- won release from death. 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD. 

The next day, at evening, two men were walking from 
opposite points towards the same scene, drawn thither by a 
common memory. The scene was the Grove by Donnithorne 
Chase : you know who the men were. 

The old Squire’s funeral had taken place that morning the 
will had been read, and now in the first breathing-space, 
Arthur Donnithorne had come out for a lonely walk, that he 
might look fixedly at the new future before him, and confirm 
himself in a sad resolution. He thought he could do that 
best in the Grove. 

Adam, too, had come from Stoniton on Monday evening, 
and fco-day he had not left home, except to go to the family at 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD. 479 

fche Hall Farm, and tell them everything that Mr. Irwine had 
left untold. He had agreed with the Poysers that he would 
follow them to their new neighborhood, wherever that might 
be ; for he meant to give up the management of the woods, 
and, as soon as it was practicable, he would wind up his busi- 
ness with Jonathan Burge, and settle with his mother and 
Seth in a home within reach of the friends to whom he felt 
bound by a mutual sorrow. 

“ Seth and me are sure to find work,” he said. “ A man that’s 
got our trade at his finger ends is at home everywhere ; and we 
must make a new start. My mother won't stand in the way, 
for she ’s told me, since I came home, she ’d made up her mind 
to being buried in another parish, if I wished it, and if I ’d be 
more comfortable elsewhere. It’s wonderful how quiet she’s 
been ever since I came back. It seems as if the very greatness 
o’ the trouble had quieted and calmed her. We shall all be 
better in a new country ; though there ’s some I shall be loth 
to leave behind. But I won’t part from you and yours, if I can 
help it, Mr. Poyser. Trouble ’s made us kin.” 

“Ay, lad,” said Martin. “We’ll go out o’ hearing o’ that 
man’s name. But I doubt we shall ne’er go far enough for 
folks not to find out as we’ve got them belonging to us as 
are transported o’er the seas, and were like to b Q hanged. 
We shall have that flyin’ up in our faces, and our children’s 
after us.” 

That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too 
strongly on Adam’s energies for him to think of seeing others, 
or re-entering on his old occupations till the morrow. “But 
to-morrow,” he said to himself, “I’ll go to work again. I shall 
learn to like it again some time, maybe ; and it ’s right whether 
I like it or not.” 

This evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed 
by sorrow ; suspense was gone now, and he must bear the un- 
alterable. He was resolved not to see Arthur Donnithorne 
again, if it were possible to avoid him. He had no message 
to deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty had seen Arthur ; and 
Adam distrusted himself : he had learned to dread the violence 
of his own feeling. That word of Mr. Irwine’s — that he 


480 


ADAM BEDE. 


must remember what he had felt after giving the last biow to 
irth 1 in the Grove — had remained with him. 

These thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are 
^Larged with strong feeling, were continually recurring, and 
they always called up the image of the Grove — of that spot 
under the overarching boughs where he had caught sight of 
the two bending figures, and had been possessed by sudden 
rage. 

“ I ’ll go and see it again to-night for the last time,” he said ; 
“ it ’ll do me good ; it ’ll make me feel over again what I felt 
when I ’d knocked him down. I felt what poor empty work 
it was, as soon as I ’d done it, before I began to think he might 
be dead.” 

In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walk- 
ing towards the same spot at the same time. 

Adam had on his working-dress again, now, — for he had 
thrown off the other with a sense of relief as soon as he came 
home ; and if he had had the basket of tools over his shoulder, 
he might have been taken, with his pale wasted face, for the 
spectre of the Adam Bede who entered the Grove on that 
August evening eight months ago. But he had no basket of 
tools, and he was not walking with the old erectness, looking 
keenly round him ; his hands were thrust in his side pockets, 
and his eyes rested chiefly on the ground. He had not long 
entered the Grove, and now he paused before a beech. He 
knew that tree well ; it was the boundary mark of his youth 
— the sign, to him, of the time when some of his earliest, 
strongest feelings had left him. He felt sure they would 
never return. And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring 
of affection at the remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne 
whom he had believed in before he had come up to this beech 
eight months ago. It was affection for the dead : that Arthur 
existed no longer. 

He was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, but 
the beech stood at a turning in the road, and he could not see 
who was coming, until the tall slim figure in deep mourning 
suddenly stood before him at only two yards’ distance. They 
both started, and looked at each other in silence. Often, in 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD. 


481 


the ^ast fortnight, Adam had imagined himself as close to 
Arthur as this, assailing him with words that should be as har- 
rowing as the voice of remorse, forcing upon him a just share 
'.n the misery he had caused; and often, too, he had told him- 
self that such a meeting had better not be. But in imagining 
the meeting he had always seen Arthur, as he had met him on 
that evening in the Grove, florid, careless, light of speech; and 
the figure before him touched him with the signs of suffering. 
Adam knew what suffering was — he could not lay a cruel fin- 
ger on a bruised man. He felt no impulse that he needed to 
resist : silence was more just than reproach. Arthur was the 
first to speak. 

“Adam,” he said, quietly, “it may be a good thing that we 
have met here, for I wished to see you. I should have asked 
to see you to-morrow.” 

He paused, but Adam said nothing. 

“ I know it is painful to you to meet me,” Arthur went on, 
“ but it is not likely to happen again for years to come.” 

“ No, sir,” said Adam, coldly, “ that was what I meant to 
write to you to-morrow, as it would be better all dealings 
should be at an end between us, and somebody else put in my 
place.” 

Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an 
effort that he spoke again. 

“ It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. I 
don’t want to lessen your indignation against me, or ask you 
to do anything for my sake. I only wish to ask you if you 
will help me to lessen the evil consequences of the past, which 
is unchangeable. I don’t mean consequences to myself, but to 
others. It is but little I can do, I know. I know the worst 
consequences will remain ; but something may be done, and 
you can help me. Will you listen to me patiently ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” said Adam, after some hesitation; “I’ll hear 
what it is. If I can help to mend anything, I will. Anger 
’ull mend nothing, I know. We’ve had enough o’ that.” 

“ I was going to the Hermitage,” said Arthur. “ Will you 
go there with me and sit down ? We can talk better there.” 

The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it 

^OL. I. 


432 


ADAM BEDE. 


together, for Arthur had locked up the key in his desk. And 
now, when he* opened the door, there was the candle burnt out 
in the socket; there was the chair in the same place where 
Adam remembered sitting; there was the waste-paper basket 
full of scraps, and deep down in it, Arthur felt in an instant, 
there was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would have 
been painful to enter this place if their previous thoughts had 
been less painful. 

They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and 
Arthur said, “I’m going away, Adam; I ’m going into the 
army.” 

Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by this an- 
nouncement — ought to have a movement of sympathy towards 
him. But Adam’s lips remained firmly closed, and the expres- 
sion of his face unchanged. 

“ What I want to say to you,” Arthur continued, “ is this: 
one of my reasons for going away is, that no one else may 
leave Hayslope — may leave their home on my account. I 
would do anything, there is no sacrifice I would not make, to 
prevent any further injury to others through my — through 
what has happened. ” 

Arthur’s words had precisely the opposite effect to that he 
had anticipated. Adam thought he perceived in them that 
notion of compensation for irretrievable wrong, that self- 
soothing attempt to make evil bear the same fruits as good, 
which most of all roused his indignation. He was as strongly 
impelled to look painful facts right in the face as Arthur was 
to turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, he had the 
wakeful suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence of a 
rich man. He felt his old severity returning as he said — * 

“ The time ’s past for that, sir. A man should make sacri- 
fices to keep clear of doing a wrong ; sacrifices won’t undo it 
when it ’s done. When people’s feelings have got a deadly 
wound, they can’t be cured with favors.” 

“Favors!” said Arthur, passionately; “no; how can you 
suppose I meant that ? But the Poysers — Mr. Irwine tells 
me the Poysers mean to leave the place where they have lived 
so many years — for generations. Don’t you see, as Mr. Irwine 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD. 


483 


does, that if they could be persuaded to overcome the feeling 
that drives them away, it would be much better for them in 
the end to remain on the old spot, among the friends and 
neighbors who know them?” 

“ That ’s true,” said Adam, coldly. “ But then, sir, folks’s 
feelings are not so easily overcome. It ’ll be hard for Martin 
Poyser to go to a strange place, among strange faces, when 
he’s been bred up on the Hall Farm, and his father before 
him ; but then it ’ud be harder for a man with his feelings to 
stay. I don’t see how the thing ’s to be made any other than 
hard. There’s a sort o’ damage, sir, that can’t be made up 
for.” 

Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings, 
dominant in him this evening, his pride winced under Adam’s 
mode of treating him. Wasn’t he himself suffering? Was 
Qot he too obliged to renounce his most cherished hopes ? It 
was now as it had been eight months ago — Adam was forcing 
Arthur to feel more intensely the irrevocableness of his own 
wrong-doing : he was presenting the sort of resistance that 
was the most irritating to Arthur’s eager, ardent nature. But 
his anger was subdued by the same influence that had subdued 
Adam’s when they first confronted each other — by the marks 
of suffering in a long familiar face. The momentary struggle 
ended in the feeling that he could bear a great deal from 
Adam, to whom he had been the occasion of bearing so much ; 
but there was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his tone 
as he said — 

11 But people may make injuries worse by unreasonable conduct 
— by giving way to anger and satisfying that for the moment, 
instead of thinking what will be the effect in the future. 

u If I were going to stay here and act as landlord,” he added, 
presently, with still more eagerness — “ if I were careless about 
what I ’ve done — what I ’ve been the cause of, you would have 
some excuse, Adam, for going away and encouraging others to 
go. You would have some excuse then for trying to make the 
evil worse. But when I tell you I ’m going away for years — 
when you know what that means for me, how it cuts off every 
plan of happiness I ’ve ever formed — it is impossible for a 


484 


ADAM BEDE. 


sensible man like yon to believe that there is any real ground 
for the Poysers refusing to remain. I know their feeling about 
disgrace, — Mr. Irwine has told me all ; but he is of opinion 
that they might be persuaded out of this idea that they are 
disgraced in the eyes of their neighbors, and that they can’t 
remain on my estate, if you would join him in his efforts, — if 
you would stay yourself, and go on managing the old woods.” 

Arthur paused a moment, and then added, pleadingly, “ You 
know that ’s a good work to do for the sake of other people, 
besides the owner. And you don’t know but that they may 
have a better owner soon, whom you will like to work for. If 
I die, my cousin Tradgett will have the estate, and take my 
name. He is a good fellow.” 

Adam could not help being moved : it was impossible for 
him not to feel that this was the voice of the honest, warm- 
hearted Arthur whom he had loved and been proud of in old 
days; but nearer memories would not be thrust away. He 
was silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face that induced 
him to go on, with growing earnestness. 

“ And then, if you would talk to the Poysers — if you would 
talk the matter over with Mr. Irwine — he means to see you 
to-morrow — and then if you would join your arguments to his 
to prevail on them not to go. ... I know, of course, that they 
would not accept any favor from me : I mean nothing of that 
kind : but I ’m sure they would suffer less in the end. Irwine 
thinks so too ; and Mr. Irwine is to have the chief authority 
on the estate — he has consented to undertake that. They 
will really be under no man but one whom they respect and 
like. It would be the same with you, Adam ; and it could be 
nothing but a desire to give me worse pain that could incline 
you to go.” 

Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, 
with some agitation in his voice — 

“I wouldn’t act so towards you, I know. If you were in 
my place and I in yours, I should try to help you to do the 
best.” 

Adam made a hasty movement on his chair, and looked on 
the ground. Arthur went on — 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD. 


485 


“ Perhaps you ’ve never done anything you ’ve had bitterly 
to repent of in your life, Adam ; if you had, you would be 
more generous. You would know then that it’s worse for me 
than for you.” 

Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to 
one of the windows, looking out and turning his back on 
Adam, as he continued, passionately — 

“ Have n’t I loved her too ? Did n’t I see her yesterday ? 
Shan’t I carry the thought of her about with me as much as 
you will ? And don’t you think you would suffer more if 
you ’d been in fault ? ” 

There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in 
Adam’s mind was not easily decided. Facile natures, whose 
emotions have little permanence, can hardly understand how 
much inward resistance he overcame before he rose from his 
seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard the movement, 
and turning round, met the sad but softened look with which 
Adam said — 

“ It ’s true what you say, sir : I ’m hard — it ’s in my nature. 
I was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I ’ve been a 
bit hard t’ everybody but her. I felt as if nobody pitied her 
enough — her suffering cut into me so ; and when I thought 
the folks at the Farm were too hard with her, I said I ’d never 
be hard to anybody myself again. But feeling overmuch 
about her has perhaps made me unfair to you. I ’ve known 
what it is in my life to repent and feel it ’s too late : I felt I ’d 
been too harsh to my father when he was gone from me — I 
feel it now, when I think of him. I ’ve no right to be hard 
towards them as have done wrong and repent.” 

Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man 
who is resolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to 
say; but he went on with more hesitation. 

“ I would n’t shake hands with you once, sir, when you 
asked me — but if you ’re willing to do it now, for all I re- 
fused then — ” 

Arthur’s white hand was in Adam’s large grasp in an in- 
stant, and with that action there was a strong rush, on both 
sides, of the old, boyish affection. 


486 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Adam,” Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, “ it 
would never have happened if I ’d known you loved her. 
That would have helped to save me from it. And I did 
struggle : I never meant to injure her. I deceived you after- 
wards — and that led on to worse ; but I thought it was forced 
upon me, I thought it was the best thing I could do. And 
in that letter I told her to let me know if she were ia. any 
trouble ; don’t think I would not have done everything I could. 
But I was all wrong from the very first, and horrible wrong has 
come of it. God knows, I ’d give my life if I could undo it.” 

They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, 
tremulously — 

“ How did she seem when you left her, sir ? ” 

“ Don’t ask me, Adam,” Arthur said “ I feel sometimes as 
if I should go mad with thinking of her looks and what she 
said to me, and then, that I could n’t get a full pardon — that 
I couldn’t save her from that wretched fate of being trans- 
ported — that I can do nothing for her all those years ; and 
she may die under it, and never know comfort any more.” 

“Ah, sir,” said Adam, for the first time feeling his own 
pain merged in sympathy for Arthur, “ you 2nd me ’ll often 
be thinking o’ the same thing, when we ’re a long way off 
one another. I ’ll pray God to help you, as I pray him to 
help me.” 

“But there’s that sweet woman — that Dinah Morris,” 
Arthur said, pursuing his own thoughts, and not knowing 
what had been the sense of Adam’s words, “ she says she shall 
stay with her to the very last moment — till she goes ; and the 
poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfort in her. 
I could worship that woman ; I don’t know what I should do if 
she were not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes 
back : I could say nothing to her yesterday — nothing of what 
I felt towards her. Tell her,” Arthur went on hurriedly, as 
if he wanted to hide the emotion with which he spoke, while 
he took off his chain and watch — “ tell her I asked you to 
give her this in remembrance of me — of the man to whom 
she is the one source of comfort, when he thinks of ... I 
know. she doesn’t care about such things — or anything else 


ANOTHER MEETING IN THE WOOD. 487 

I can give her for its own sake. But she will use the watch 
— I shall like to think of her using it.” 

“I ’ll give it to her, sir,” Adam said, “and tell her your 
words. She told me she should come back to the people at 
the Hall Farm.” 

“ And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam ?” said 
Arthur, reminded of the subject which both of them had for- 
gotten in the first interchange of revived friendship. “You 
will stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine to carry out the 
repairs and improvements on the estate ? ” 

“There’s one thing, sir, that perhaps you don’t take ac- 
count of,” said Adam, with hesitating gentleness, “and that 
was what made me hang back longer. You see, it ’s the same 
with both me and the Poysers : if we stay, it ’s for our own 
worldly interest, and it looks as if we ’d put up with anything 
for the sake o’ that. I know that ’s what they ’ll feel, and I 
can’t help feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got 
an honorable, independent spirit, they don’t like to do any- 
thing that might make ’em seem base-minded.” 

“ But no one who knows you will think that, Adam: that 
is not a reason strong enough against a course that is really 
more generous, more unselfish than the other. And it will 
be known — it shall be made known, that both you and the 
Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don’t try to make 
things worse for me; I ’m punished enough without that.” 

“ No, sir, no,” Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful 
affection. “ God forbid I should make things worse for you. 
I used to wish I could -do it, in my passion ; — but that was 
when I thought you did n’t feel enough. I ’ll stay, sir : I ffl 
do the best I can. It ’s all I ’ve got to think of now — to do 
my work well, and make the world a bit better place for them 
as can enjoy it.” 

“ Then we ’ll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine 
to-morrow, and consult with him about everything.” 

“ Are you going soon, sir ?” said Adam. 

“As soon as possible — after I ’ve made the necessary ar- 
rangements. Good-by, Adam. I shall think of you going 
about the old place.” 


m 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Good-by, sir. God bless you.” 

The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Her- 
mitage, feeling that sorrow was more bearable now hatred was 
gone. 

As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went 
to the waste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk 
handkerchief. 


BOOK VI. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

AT THE HALL FARM. 

The first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801 — more than 
eighteen months after that parting of Adam and Arthur in 
the Hermitage — was on the yard at the Hall Farm, and the 
bulldog was in one of his most excited moments ; for it was 
that hour of the day when the cows were being driven into the 
yard for their afternoon milking. No wonder the patient beasts 
ran confusedly into the wrong places, for the alarming din of 
the bulldog was mingled with more distant sounds which the 
timid feminine creatures, with pardonable superstition, im- 
agined also to have some relation to their own movements — 
with the tremendous crack of the wagoner’s whip, the roar of 
his voice, and the booming thunder of the wagon, as it left the 
rick-yard empty of its golden load. 

The milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and 
at this hour on mild days she was usually standing at the 
house door, with her knitting in her hands, in quiet contempla 
fion, only heightened to a keener interest when the vicious 
yellow cow, who had once kicked over a pailful of precious 
milk, was about to undergo the preventive punishment of hav 
ing her hinder legs strapped. 

To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention 
to the arrival of the cows, for she was in eager discussion with 
Dinah, who was stitching Mr. Poyser’s shirt-collars, and had 
borne patiently to have her thread broken three times by 
Totty pulling at her arm with a sudden insistance that she 
should look at “ Baby,” that is, at a large wooden doll with na 


490 


ADAM BEDE. 


legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty, seated in her 
small chair at Dinah’s side, was caressing and pressing to her 
fat cheek with much fervor. Totty is larger by more than 
two years’ growth than when you first saw her, and she has on 
a black frock under her pinafore : Mrs. Poyser too has on a 
black gown, which seems to heighten the family likeness 
between her and Dinah. In other respects there is little 
outward change now discernible in our old friends, or in the 
pleasant house-place, bright with polished oak and pewter. 

“I never saw the like to you, Dinah,” Mrs. Poyser was say- 
ing, “ when you ’ve once took anything into your head : there ’s 
no more moving you than the rooted tree. You may say what 
you like, but I don’t believe that ’s religion ; for what ’s the 
Sermon on the Mount about, as you ’re so fond o’ reading to 
the boys, but doing what other folks ’ud have you do ? But 
if it was anything unreasonable they wanted you to do, like 
taking your cloak off and giving it to ’em, or letting ’em slap 
you i’ the face, I dare say you ’d be ready enough : it ’s only 
when one ’ud have you do what ’s plain common-sense and 
good for yourself, as you ’re obstinate th’ other way.” 

“ Nay, dear aunt,” said Dinah, smiling slightly as she 
went on with her work, “ I ’m sure your wish ’ud be a 
reason for me to do anything that I did n’t feel it was 
wrong to do.” 

“ Wrong ! You drive me past bearing. What is there wrong, 
I should like to know, i’ staying along wi’ your own friends, 
as are th’ happier for having you with ’em, an’ are willing to 
provide for you, even if your work did n’t more nor pay ’em 
for the bit o’ sparrow’s victual y’ eat, and the bit o’ rag you 
put on ? An’ who is it, I should like to know, as you ’re 
bound t’ help and comfort i’ the world more nor your own 
flesh and blood — an’ me th’ only aunt you ’ve got above- 
ground, an’ am brought to the brink o’ the grave welly every 
winter as comes, an’ there ’s the child as sits beside you ’ull 
break her little heart when you go, an’ the grandfather not 
been dead a twelvemonth, an’ your uncle ’ull miss you so as 
never was — a-lighting his pipe an’ waiting on him, an’ now I 
can trust you wi’ the butter, an’ have had all the trouble o’ 


AT THE HALL FARM. 


491 


teaching you, and there ’s all the sewing to be done, an’ I must 
have a strange gell out o’ Treddles’on to do it — an’ all because 
you must go back to that bare heap o’ stones as the very crows 
fly over an’ won’t stop at.” 

“ Dear aunt Rachel,” said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poy- 
ser’s face, “ it ’s your kindness makes you say I ’m useful to 
you. You don’t really want me now; for Nancy and Molly 
are clever at their work, and you ’re in good health now, by 
the blessing of God, and my uncle is of a cheerful countenance 
again, and you have neighbors and friends not a few — some 
of them come to sit with my uncle almost daily. Indeed, you 
will not miss me ; and at Snowfield there are brethren and 
sisters in great need, who have none of those comforts you 
have around you. I feel that I am called back to those 
amongst whom my lot was first cast: I feel drawn again 
towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the 
word of life to the sinful and desolate.” 

“ You feel! yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a paren- 
thetic glance at the cows. “ That ’s allays the reason I ’m to 
sit down wi’, when you ’ve a mind to do anything contrairy. 
What do you want to be preaching for more than you ’re 
preaching now ? Don’t you go off, the Lord knows where, 
every Sunday a-preaching and praying ? an’ have n’t you got 
Methodists enow at Treddles’on to go and look at, if church 
folks’s faces are too handsome to please you ? an’ is n’t there 
them i’ this parish as you ’ve got under hand, and they ’re like 
enough to make friends wi’ Old Harry again as soon as your 
back’s turned? There’s that Bessy Cranage — she ’ll be 
flaunting i’ new finery three weeks after you ’re gone, I ’ll be 
bound : she ’ll no more go on in her new ways without you, 
than a dog ’ull stand on its hind-legs when there ’s nobody 
looking. But I suppose it doesna matter so much about folks’s 
souls i’ this country, else you ’d be for staying with your own 
aunt, for she ’s none so good but what you might help her to 
be better.” 

There was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser’s voice just 
then, which she did not wish to be noticed, so she turned 
round hastily to look at the clock, and said : “ See there ! It ’s 


492 


ADAM BEDE. 


tea-time ; an’ if Martin 's i’ the rick-yard, he 'll like a cup. 
Here, Totty, my chicken, let mother put your bonnet on, and 
then you go out into the rick-yard, and see if father 's there, 
and tell him he must n't go away again without coming t’ have 
a cup o’ tea ; and tell your brothers to come in too.” 

Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser 
set out the bright oak table, and reached down the tea-cups. 

“You talk o' them gells Nancy and Molly being clever i' 
their work,” she began again ; — “it 's fine talking. They 're 
all the same, clever or stupid — one can’t trust 'em out o' one’s 
sight a minute. They want somebody's eye on 'em constant 
if they 're to be kept to their work. An' suppose I 'm ill 
again this winter, as I was the winter before last, who 's to 
look after 'em then, if you 're gone ? An’ there 's that blessed 
child — something 's sure t’ happen to her — they '11 let her 
tumble into the fire, or get at the kettle wi' the boiling lard 
in 't, or some mischief as 'ull lame her for life ; an' it '11 be all 
your fault, Dinah.” 

“ Aunt,” said Dinah, “ I promise to come back to you in the 
winter if you 're ill. Don't think I will ever stay away from 
you if you 're in real want of me. But indeed it is needful 
for my own soul that I should go away from this life of ease 
and luxury, in which I have all things too richly to enjoy — 
at least that I should go away for a short space. No one can 
know but myself what are my inward needs, and the beset- 
ments I am most in danger from. Your wish for me to stay 
is not a call of duty which I refuse to hearken to because it is 
against my own desires ; it is a temptation that I must resist, 
lest the love of the creature should become like a mist in my 
soul shutting out the heavenly light.” 

“ It passes my cunning to know what you mean by ease and 
luxury,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she cut the bread and butter. 
“ It 's true there 's good victual enough about you, as nobody 
shall ever say I don’t provide enough and to spare, but if 
there 's ever a bit o' odds an’ ends as nobody else 'ud eat, 
you 're sure to pick it out . . . but look there ! there 's Adam 
Bede a-carrying the little un in. I wonder how it is he 's come 
so early/' 


AT THE HALL FARM. 


498 


Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of looking 
at her darling in a new position, with love in her eyes but 
reproof on her tongue. 

“ Oh for shame, Totty ! Little gells o’ five year old should 
be ashamed to be carried. Why, Adam, she ’ll break your arm, 
such a big gell as that ; set her down — for shame ! ” 

“ Nay, nay,” said Adam, “I can lift her with my hand, I ’ve 
no need to take my arm to it.” 

Totty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat 
white puppy, was set down at the door-place, and the mother 
enforced her reproof with a shower of kisses. 

“ You ’re surprised to see me at this hour o’ the day,” said 
Adam. 

“ Yes, but come in,” said Mrs. Poyser, making way for him ; 
“ there ’s no bad news, I hope ? ” 

“No, nothing bad,” Adam answered, as he went up to Dinah 
and put out his hand to her. She had laid down her work and 
stood up, instinctively, as he approached her. A faint blush 
died away from her pale cheek as she put her hand in his, and 
looked up at him timidly. 

“It’s an errand to you brought me, Dinah,” said Adam, 
apparently unconscious that he was holding her hand all the 
while ; “ mother ’s a bit ailing, and she ’s set her heart on your 
coming to stay the night with her, if you’ll be so kind. I told 
her I ’d call and ask you as I came from the village. She over- 
works herself, and I can’t persuade her to have a little girl t’ 
help her. I don’t know what’s to be done.” 

Adam released Dinah’s hand as he ceased speaking, and was 
expecting an answer ; but before she had opened her lips Mrs. 
Poyser said — 

“ Look there now ! I told you there was folks enow t’ help 
i’ this parish, wi’out going further off. There’s Mrs. Bede 
getting as old and cas’alty as can be, and she won’t let any- 
body but you go a-nigh her hardly. The folks at Snowfield 
have learnt by this time to do better wi’out you nor she can.” 

“ I ’ll put my bonnet on and set off directly, if you don’t want 
anything done first, aunt,” said Dinah, folding up her work. 

“Yes, I do want something done. I want you t’ have your 


494 


ADAM BEDE. 


tea, child ; it ’s all ready ; and you 41 have a cup, Adam, if y J 
arena in too big a hurry.” 

“Yes, 141 have a cup, please; and then 141 walk with 
Dinah. I ’m going straight home, for I ’ve got a lot o’ timber 
valuations to write out.” 

“ Why, Adam, lad, are you here ? ” said Mr. Poyser, enter- 
ing warm and coatless, with the two black-eyed boys behind 
him, still looking as much like him as two small elephants are 
like a large one. “ How is it we ’ve got sight o’ you so long 
before foddering-time ? ” 

“ I came on an errand for mother,” said Adam. “ She ’s got 
a touch of her old complaint, and she wants Dinah to go and 
stay with her a bit.” 

“Well, we 41 spare her for your mother a little while,” said 
Mr. Poyser. “But we wonna spare her for anybody else, on’y 
her husband.” 

“ Husband ! ” said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and 
literal period of the boyish mind. “ Why, Dinah has n't got 
a husband.” 

“ Spare her ? ” said Mrs. Poyser, placing a seed-cake on the 
table, and then seating herself to pour out the tea. “ But we 
must spare her, it seems, and not for a husband neither, but 
for her own megrims. Tommy, what are you doing to your 
little sister's doll ? making the child naughty, when she ’d be 
good if you’d let her. You shanna have a morsel o' cake if 
you behave so.” 

Tommy, with true brotherly sympathy, was amusing himself 
by turning Dolly’s skirt over her bald head, and exhibiting her 
truncated body to the general scorn — an indignity which cut 
Totty to the heart. 

“ What do you think Dinah’s been a-telling me since dinner 
time ? ” Mrs. Poyser continued, looking at her husband. 

“ Eh ! I ’m a poor un at guessing,” said Mr. Poyser. 

“ Why, she means to go back to Snowfield again, and work 
i’ the mill, and starve herself, as she used to do, like a creatur 
as has got no friends.” 

Mr. Poyser did not readily find words to express his un- 
pleasant astonishment; he only looked from his wife to Dinah 


AT THE HALL FARM. 


496 


who had now seated herself beside Totty, as a bulwark against 
brotherly playfulness, and was busying herself with the chil- 
dren’s tea. If he had been given to making general reflections, 
it would have occurred to him that there was certainly a change 
come over Dinah, for she never used to change color ; but, as 
it was, he merely observed that her face was flushed at that 
moment. Mr. Poyser thought she looked the prettier for it : 
it was a flush no deeper than the petal of a monthly rose. 
Perhaps it came because her uncle was looking at her so 
fixedly ; but there is no knowing ; for just then Adam was 
saying, with quiet surprise — 

“Why, I hoped Dinah was settled among us for life. I 
thought she ’d given up the notion o’ going back to her old 
country.” 

“ Thought ! yes,” said Mrs. Poyser ; “ and so would anybody 
else ha’ thought, as had got their right end up’ards. But I 
suppose you must be a Methodist to know what a Methodist 
’ull do. It ’s ill guessing what the bats are flying after.” 

“Why, what have we done to you, Dinah, as you must go 
away from us ? ” said Mr. Poyser, still pausing over his tea- 
cup. “ It ’s like breaking your word, welly ; for your aunt 
never had no thought but you ’d make this your home.” 

“Hay, uncle,” said Dinah, trying to be quite calm. “When 
I first came, I said it was only for a time, as long as I could 
be of any comfort to my aunt.” 

“Well, an’ who said you’d ever left off being a comfort to 
me ? ” said Mrs. Poyser. “ If you didna mean to stay wi’ me, 
you ’d better never ha’ come. Them as ha’ never had a cushion 
don’t miss it.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, who objected to exaggerated 
views. “ Thee mustna say so ; we should ha’ been ill off wi’- 
out her, Lady Day was a twelvemont’ : we mun be thankful 
for that, whether she stays or no. But I canna think what 
she mun leave a good home for, to go back int’ a country where 
the land, most on ’t, isna worth ten shillings an acre, rent and 
profits.” 

“ Why, that ’s just the reason she wants to go, as fur as she 
can give a reason,” said Mrs. Poyser. “ She says this country *s 


496 


ADAM BEDE. 


too comfortable, an’ there ’s too much t’ eat, an’ folks arena 
miserable enough. And she ’s going next week : I canna turn 
her, say what I will. It’s allays the way wi’ them meekfaced 
people ; you may ’s well pelt a bag o’ feathers as talk to ’em. 
But I say it isna religion, to be so obstinate — is it now, 
Adam ? ” 

Adam saw that Dinah was more disturbed than he had ever 
seen her by any matter relating to herself, and, anxious to re- 
lieve her, if possible, he said, looking at her affectionately — 

“Nay, I can’t find fault with anything Dinah does. I be- 
lieve her thoughts are better than our guesses, let ’em be what 
they may. I should ha’ been thankful for her to stay among 
us ; but if she thinks well to go, I would n’t cross her, or make 
it hard to her by objecting. We owe her something different 
to that.” 

As it often happens, the words intended to relieve her were 
just too much for Dinah’s susceptible feelings at this moment. 
The tears came into the gray eyes too fast to be hidden ; and 
she got up hurriedly, meaning it to be understood that she was 
going to put on her bonnet. 

“ Mother, what ’s Dinah crying for ? ” said Totty. “ She 
is n’t a naughty dell.” 

“Thee ’st gone a bit too fur,” said Mr. Poyser. “We’ve no 
right t’ interfere with her doing as she likes. An’ thee ’dst 
be as angry as could be wi’ me, if I said a word against anything 
she did.” 

“ Because you ’d very like be finding fault wi’out reason,” 
said Mrs. Poyser. “ But there ’s reason i’ what I say, else I 
shouldna say it. It ’s easy talking for them as can’t love her 
so well as her own aunt does. An’ me got so used to her ! 
I shall feel as uneasy as a new sheared sheep when she ’s gone 
from me. An’ to think of her leaving a parish where she ’s 
so looked on. There ’s Mr. Irwine makes as much of her as 
if she was a lady, for all her being a Methodist, an’ wi’ that 
maggot o’ preaching in her head ; — God forgi’e me if I ’m 
i’ the wrong to call it so.” 

“ Ay,” said Mr. Poyser, looking jocose ; “ but thee dostna 
tell Adam what he said to thee about it one day. The missis 


AT THE HALL FARM. 


497 


was saying, Adam, as the preaching was the only fault to be 
found wi’ Dinah, and Mr. Irwine says, ‘But you must n’t find 
fault with her for that, Mrs. Poyser ; you forget she ’s got no 
husband to preach to. I ’ll answer for it, you give Poyser many 
a good sermon.’ The parson had thee there,” Mr. Poyser added, 
laughing unctuously. “I told Bartle Massey on it, an’ he 
laughed too.” 

“Yes, it’s a small joke sets men laughing when they sit 
a-staring at one another with a pipe i’ their mouths,” said Mrs. 
Poyser. “ Give Bartle Massey his way, and he ’d have all the 
sharpness to himself. If the chaff-cutter had the making of 
us, we should all be straw, I reckon. Totty, my chicken, go 
up-stairs to cousin Dinah, and see what she ’s doing, and give 
her a pretty kiss.” 

This errand was devised for Totty as a means of checking 
certain threatening symptoms about the corners of the mouth ; 
for Tommy, no longer expectant of cake, was lifting up his 
eyelids with his fore-fingers, and turning his eyeballs towards 
Totty, in a way that she felt to be disagreeably personal. 

“You’re rare and busy now — eh, Adam?” said Mr. Poy- 
ser. “ Burge ’s getting so bad wi’ his asthmy, it ’s well if he ’ll 
ever do much riding about again.” 

“ Yes, we ’ve got a pretty bit o’ building on hand now,” said 
Adam : “ what with the repairs on th’ estate, and the new 
houses at Treddles’on.” 

“ I ’ll bet a penny that new house Burge is building on his 
own bit o’ land is for him and Mary to go to,” said Mr. Poyser. 
“ He ’ll be for laying by business soon, I ’ll warrant, and be 
wanting you to take to it all, and pay him so much by th’ ’ear. 
We shall see you living on th’ hill before another twelvemont *g 
over.” 

“ Well,” said Adam, “ I should like t’ have the business in 
my own hands. It is n’t as I mind much about getting any 
more moneys we ’ve enough and to spare now, with only our 
two selves and mother ; but I should like t’ have my own way 
about things : I could try plans then, as I can’t do now.” 

“You get on pretty well wi’ the new steward, I reckon ? n 
said Mr. Poyser. 

VOL. i. 


498 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Yes, yes ; he ’s a sensible man enough : understands farm- 
ing — he ’s carrying on the draining, and all that, capital. 
You must go some day towards the Stony shire side, and see 
what alterations they’re making. But he’s got no notion 
about buildings : you can so seldom get hold of a man as can 
turn his brains to more nor one thing ; it ’s just as if they 
wore blinkers like th’ horses, and could see nothing o’ one side 
of ’em. Now, there ’s Mr. Irwine has got notions o’ builds g 
more nor most architects ; for as for th’ architects, they set up 
to be fine fellows, but the most of ’em don’t know where to set a 
chimney so as it shan’t be quarrelling with a door. My notion 
is, a practical builder, that ’s got a bit o’ taste, makes the best 
architect for common things ; and I ’ve ten times the pleasure 
i’ seeing after the work when I ’ve made the plan myself.” 

Mr. Poyser listened with an admiring interest to Adam’s 
discourse on building; but perhaps it suggested to him that 
the building of his corn-rick had been proceeding a little too 
long without the control of the master’s eye ; for when Adam 
had done speaking, he got up and said — 

“ Well, lad, I ’ll bid you good-by now, for I ’m off to the 
rick-yard again.” 

Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet 
on, and a little basket in her hand, preceded by Totty. 

“You’re ready, I see, Dinah,” Adam said; “so we’ll set 
off, for the sooner I ’m at home the better.” 

“Mother,” said Totty, with her treble pipe, “Dinah was 
saying her prayers and crying ever so.” 

“Hush, hush,” said the mother: “little gells mustn’t 
chatter.” 

Whereupon the father, shaking with silent laughter, set 
Totty on the white deal table, and desired her to kiss him. 
Mr. and Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, had no correct principles 
of education. 

“Come back to-morrow if Mrs. Bede doesn’t want you, 
Dinah,” said Mrs. Poyser : “ but you can stay, you know, if 
she ’s ill.” 

So, when the good-byes had been said, Dinah and Adam left 
the Hall Farm together, 


IN THE COTTAGE- 


499 


CHAPTER L. 

IN THE COTTAGE. 

Adam did not ask Dinah, to take his arm when they got out 
into the lane. He had never yet done so, often as they had 
walked together ; for he had observed that she never walked 
arm-in-arm with Seth, and he thought, perhaps, that kind of 
support was not agreeable to her. So they walked apart, 
though side by side, and the close poke of her little black 
bonnet hid her face from him. 

“You can’t be happy, then, to make the Hall Earm your 
home, Dinah ? ” Adam said, with the quiet interest of a 
brother, who has no anxiety for himself in the matter. “ It ’s 
a pity, seeing they ’re so fond of you.” 

“You know, Adam, my heart is as their heart, so far as 
love for them and care for their welfare goes ; but they are in 
no present need, their sorrows are healed, and I feel that I am 
called back to my old work, in which I found a blessing that 
I have missed of late in the midst of too abundant worldly 
good. I know it is a vain thought to flee from the work that 
God appoints us, for the sake of finding a greater blessing to 
our own souls, as if we could choose for ourselves where we 
shall find the fulness of the Divine Presence, instead of seek- 
ing it where alone it is to be found, in loving obedience. But 
now, I believe, I have a clear showing that my work lies else- 
where — at least for a time. In the years to come, if my 
aunt’s health should fail, or she should otherwise need me, I 
shall return.” 

“You know best, Dinah,” said Adam. “I don’t believe 
you ’d go against the wishes of them that love you, and are 
akin to you, without a good and sufficient reason in your own 
conscience. I’ve no right to say anything about my being 
sorry : you know well enough what cause I have to put you 
above every other friend I ’ve got ; and if it had been ordered 
so that you could ha’ been my sister, and lived with us all our 


500 


ADAM BEDE. 


lives, I should ha’ counted it the greatest blessing as could 
happen to us now ; but Seth tells me there ’s no hope o’ that : 
your feelings are different ; and perhaps I ’m taking too much 
upon me to speak about it.” 

Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence for 
some yards, till they came to the stone stile ; where, as Adam 
had passed through first, and turned round to give her his 
hand while she mounted the unusually high step, she could 
not prevent him from seeing her face. It struck him with 
surprise ; for the .gray eyes, usually so mild and grave, had 
the bright uneasy glance which accompanies suppressed agita- 
tion, and the slight flush in her cheeks, with which she had 
come down-stairs, was heightened to a deep rose-color. She 
looked as if she were only sister to Dinah. Adam was client 
with surprise and conjecture for some moments, and then he 
said — 

“ I hope I ’ve not hurt or displeased you by what I ’ve said, 
Dinah : perhaps I was making too free. I ’ve no wish different 
from what you see to be best ; and I ’m satisfied for you to 
live thirty mile off, if you think it right. I shall think of you 
just as much as I do now; for you’re bound up with what 
I can no more help remembering, than I can help my heart 
beating.” 

Poor Adam ! Thus do men blunder. Dinah made no an- 
swer, but she presently said — 

“ Have you heard any news from that poor young man, since 
we last spoke of him ? ” 

Dinah always called Arthur so ; she had never lost the 
image of him as she had seen him in the prison. 

“ Yes,” said Adam. “ Mr. Irwine read me part of a letter 
from him yesterday. It ’s pretty certain, they say, that there ’ll 
be a peace soon, though nobody believes it ’ll last long ; but 
he says he does n’t mean to come home. He ’s no heart for it 
yet ; and it ’s better for others that he should keep away. Mr. 
Irwine thinks he ’s in the right not to come : — it ’s a sorrow- 
ful letter. He asks about you and the Poysers, as he always 
does. There’s one thing in the letter cut me a good dealf 
* You can’t think what an old fellow I feel/ he says: *1 make 


IN THE COTTAGE. 501 

no schemes now. I ’m the best when I ’ve a good day’s march 
or fighting before me.’ ” 

“ He ’s of a rash, warm-hearted nature, like Esau, for whom 
I have always felt great pity,” said Dinah. “ That meeting 
between the brothers, where Esau is so loving and generous, 
and Jacob so timid and distrustful, notwithstanding his sense 
of the Divine favor, has always touched me greatly. Truly, I 
have been tempted sometimes to say that Jacob was of a mean 
spirit. But that is our trial : — we must learn to see the good 
in the midst of much that is unlovely.” 

“ Ah,” said Adam, “ I like to read about Moses best, in th’ 
Old Testament. He carried a hard business well through, and 
died when other folks were going to reap the fruits : a man 
must have courage to look at his life so, and think what ’ll 
come of it after he ’s dead and gone. A good solid bit o’ work 
lasts : if it ’s only laying a floor down, somebody ’s the better 
for it being done well, besides the man as does it.” 

They were both glad to talk of subjects that were not per- 
sonal, and in this way they went on till they passed the bridge 
across the Willow Brook, when Adam turned round and said — 

“ Ah, here ’s Seth. I thought he ’d be home soon. Does he 
know of your going, Dinah ? ” 

“ Yes, I told him last Sabbath.” 

Adam remembered now that Seth had come home much 
depressed on Sunday evening, a circumstance which had been 
very unusual with him of late, for the happiness he had in 
seeing Dinah every week seemed long to have outweighed the 
pain of knowing she would never marry him. This even- 
ing he had his habitual air of dreamy benignant contentment, 
until he came quite close to Dinah, and saw the traces of tears 
on her delicate eyelids and eyelashes. He gave one rapid 
glance at his brother ; but Adam was evidently quite outside 
the current of emotion that had shaken Dinah : he wore his 
every-day look of unexpectant calm. Seth tried not to let 
Dinah see that he had noticed her face, and only said — 

“ I ’m thankful you ’re come, Dinah, for mother ’s been hun- 
gering after the sight of you all day. She began to talk of 
you the first thing in the morning.” 


502 


ADAM BEDE, 


When they entered the cottage, Lisbeth was seated in her 
arm-chair, too tired with setting out the evening meal, a task 
she always performed a long time beforehand, to go and meet 
them at the door as usual, when she heard the approaching 
footsteps. 

“ Coom, child, thee ’t coom at last,” she said, when Dinah 
went towards her. ‘ ‘ What dost mane by lavin’ me a week, 
an’ ne’er cornin’ a-nigh me.” 

“Dear friend,” said Dinah, taking her hand, “you ’re not 
well. If I ’d known it sooner, I ’d have come.” 

“An’ how’s thee t’ know if thee dostna coom ? Th’ lads 
on’y know what I tell ’em; as long as ye can stir hand and 
foot the men think ye ’re hearty. But I ’m none so bad, on’y 
a bit of a cold sets me achin’. An’ th’ lads tease me so t’ ha’ 
somebody wi’ me t’ do the work — they make me ache worse 
wi’ talkin’. If thee ’dst come and stay wi’ me, they ’d let me 
alone. The Poysers canna want thee so bad as I do. But 
take thy bonnet off, an’ let me look at thee.” 

Dinah was moving away, but Lisbeth held her fast, while 
she was taking off her bonnet, and looked at her face, as one 
looks into a newly gathered snow-drop, to renew the old im- 
pressions of purity and gentleness. 

“What ’s the matter wi’ thee?” said Lisbeth, in astonish- 
ment; “ thee ’st been a-cryin’.” 

“ It ’a only a grief that ’ll pass away,” said Dinah, who did 
not wish just now to call forth Lisbeth’s remonstrances by dis- 
closing her intention to leave Ilayslope. “ You shall know 
about it shortly — we ’ll talk of it to-night. I shall stay with 
you to-night.” 

Lisbeth was pacified by this prospect; and she had the 
whole evening to talk with Dinah alone ; for there was a new 
room in the cottage, you remember, built nearly two years ago, 
in the expectation of a new inmate; and here Adam always 
sat when he had writing to do, or plans to make. Seth sat 
there too this evening, for he knew his mother would like to 
have Dinah all to herself. 

There were two pretty pictures on the two sides of the wall 
in the cottage. On one side there was the broad-shouldered, 


IN THE COTTAGE. 


508 


large-featured, hardy old woman, in her blue jacket and buff 
kerchief, with her dim-eyed anxious looks turned continually 
on the lily face and the slight form in the black dress that 
were either moving lightly about in helpful activity, or seated 
close by the old woman’s arm-chair, holding her withered hand, 
with eyes lifted up towards her to speak a language which 
Lisbeth understood far better than the Bible or the hymn- 
book. She would scarcely listen to reading at all to-night. 
“Nay, nay, shut the book,” she said. “We mun talk. I want 
t’ know what thee was cry in’ about. Hast got troubles o’ thy 
own, like other folks ? ” 

On the other side of the wall there were the two brothers, 
so like each other in the midst of their unlikeness : Adam, 
with knit brows, shaggy hair, and dark vigorous color, ab- 
sorbed in his “ figuring ; ” Seth, with large rugged features, 
the close copy of his brother’s, but with thin wavy brown hair 
and blue dreamy eyes, as often as not looking vaguely out of 
the window instead of at his book, although it was a newly 
bought book — Wesley’s abridgment of Madame Guyon’s life, 
which was full of wonder and interest for him. Seth had 
said to Adam, “Can I help thee with anything in here to- 
night ? I don’t want to make a noise in the shop.” 

“ No, lad,” Adam answered, “ there ’s nothing but what I 
must do myself. Thee ’st got thy new book to read.” 

And often, when Seth was quite unconscious, Adam, as 
he paused after drawing a line with his ruler, looked at his 
brother with a kind smile dawning in his eyes. He knew 
“ th’ lad liked to sit full o’ thoughts he could give no account 
of ; they ’d never come t’ anything, but they made him happy ; ” 
and in the last year or so, Adam had been getting more and 
more indulgent to Seth. It was part of that growing tender- 
ness which came from the sorrow at work within him. 

For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, 
working hard and delighting in his work after his inborn, 
inalienable nature, had not outlived his sorrow — had not 
felt it slip from him as a temporary burthen, and leave him 
the same man again. Ho any of us ? God forbid. It would 
be a poor result of all our anguish and our wrestling, if we 


504 


ADAM BEDE. 


won nothing but our old selves at the end of it — if we could 
return to the same blind loves, the same self-confident blame, 
the same light thoughts of human suffering, the same frivo- 
lous gossip over blighted human lives, the same feeble sense 
of that Unknown towards which we have sent forth irrepres- 
sible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful that 
our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only changing 
its form, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathy — 
the one poor word which includes all our best insight and our 
best love. Not that this transformation of pain into sym- 
pathy had completely taken place in Adam yet : there was 
still a great remnant of pain, and this he felt would subsist 
as long as her pain was not a memory, but an existing thing, 
which he must think of as renewed with the light of every 
new morning. But we get accustomed to mental as well as 
bodily pain, without, for all that, losing our sensibility to it . 
it becomes a habit of our lives, and we cease to imagine a 
condition of perfect ease as possible for us. Desire is chas- 
tened into submission ; and we are contented with our day 
when we have been able 'to bear our grief in silence, and act 
as if we were not suffering. Bor it is at such periods that the 
sense of our lives having visible and invisible relations beyond 
any of which either our present or prospective self is the 
centre, grows like a muscle that we are obliged to lean on 
and exert. 

That was Adam’s state of mind in this second autumn of 
his sorrow. His work, as you know, had always been part of 
his religion, and from very early days he saw clearly that 
good carpentry was God’s will — was that form of God’s will 
that most immediately concerned him ; but now there was no 
margin of dreams for him beyond this daylight reality, no 
holiday-time in the working-day world; no moment in the 
distance when duty would take off her iron glove and breast- 
plate, and clasp him gently into rest. He conceived no picture 
of the future but one made up of hard-working days such as 
he lived through, with growing contentment and intensity of 
interest, every fresh week : love, he thought, could never be 
anything to him but a living memory — a limb lopped off, but 


IN THE COTTAGE. 


505 


not gone from consciousness. He did not know that the 
power of loving was all the while gaining new force within 
him ; that the new sensibilities bought by a deep experience 
were so many new fibres by which it was possible, nay, neces- 
sary to him, that his nature should intertwine with another. 
Yet he was aware that common affection and friendship were 
more precious to him than they used to be, — that he clung 
more to his mother and Seth, and had an unspeakable satis" 
faction in the sight or imagination of any small addition to 
their happiness. The Poysers, too — hardly three or four 
days passed but he felt the need of seeing them, and inter- 
changing words and looks of friendliness with them: he 
would have felt this, probably, even if Dinah had not been 
with them ; but he had only said the simplest truth in telling 
Dinah that he put her above all other friends in the world. 
Could anything be more natural ? For in the darkest mo- 
ments of memory the thought of her always came as the first 
ray of returning comfort : the early days of gloom at the Hall 
Farm had been gradually turned into soft moonlight by her 
presence ; and in the cottage, too, — for she had come at every 
spare moment to soothe and cheer poor Lisbeth, who had been 
stricken with a fear that subdued even her querulousness, at 
the sight of her darling Adam’s grief-worn face. He had 
become used to watching her light quiet movements, her 
pretty loving ways to the children, when he went to the Hall 
Farm ; to listen for her voice as for a recurrent music ; to 
think everything she said and did was just right, and could 
.aot have been better. In spite of his wisdom, he could not 
find fault with her for her over-indulgence of the children, 
who had managed to convert Dinah the preacher, before whom 
a circle of rough men had often trembled a little, into a con- 
venient household slave ; though Dinah herself was rather 
ashamed of this weakness, and had some inward conflict as to 
her departure from the precepts of Solomon. Yes, there was 
one thing that might have been better ; she might have loved 
Seth and consented to marry him. He felt a little vexed, 
for his brother’s sake ; and he could not help thinking regret- 
fully how Dinah, as Seth’s wife, would have made their home 


506 


ADAM BEDE. 


as happy as it could be for them all — how she was the one 
being that would have soothed their mother’s last days into 
peacefulness and rest. 

“ It ’s wonderful she does n’t love th’ lad,” Adam had said 
sometimes to himself ; “ for anybody ’ud think he was just cut 
out for her. But her heart ’s so taken up with other things. 
She ’s one o’ those women that feel no drawing towards having 
a husband and children o’ their own. She thinks she should 
be filled up with her own life then ; and she ’s been used so to 
living in other folks’s cares, she can’t bear the thought of her 
heart being shut up from ’em. I see how it is, well enough. 
She ’s cut out o’ different stuff from most women : I saw that 
long ago. She ’s never easy but when she ’s helping somebody, 
and marriage ’ud interfere with her ways, — that ’s true. I ’ve 
no right to be contriving and thinking it ’ud be better if she ’d 
have Seth, as if I was wiser than she is ; — or than God either, 
for he made her what she is, and that ’s one o’ the greatest 
blessings I ’ve ever had from his hands, and others besides 
me.” 

This self-reproof had recurred strongly to Adam’s mind, 
when he gathered from Dinah’s face that he had wounded her 
by referring to his wish that she had accepted Seth, and so he 
had endeavored to put into the strongest words his confidence 
in her decision as right — his resignation even to her going 
away from them, and ceasing to make part of their life other- 
wise than by living in their thoughts, if that separation were 
chosen by herself. He felt sure she knew quite well enough 
how much he cared to see her continually — to talk to her with 
the silent consciousness of a mutual great remembrance. It 
was not possible she should hear anything but self-renouncing 
affection and respect in his assurance that he was contented 
for her to go away ; and yet there remained an uneasy feeling 
in his mind that he had not said quite the right thing — that, 
somehow, Dinah had not understood him. 

Dinah must have risen a little before the sun the next morn- 
ing, for she was down-stairs about five o’clock. So was Seth : 
for, through Lisbeth’s obstinate refusal to have any woman- 
helper in the house, he had learned to make himself, as Adam 


IN THE COTTAGE. 


507 


said, “very handy n the housework,” that he might save his 
mother from too great weariness ; on which ground I hope you 
will not think him unmanly, any more than you can have 
thought the gallant Colonel Bath unmanly when he made the 
gruel for his invalid sister. Adam, who had sat up late at his 
writing, was still asleep, and was not likely, Seth said, to be 
down till breakfast-time. Often as Dinah had visited Lisbeth 
during the last eighteen months, she had never slept in the 
cottage since that night after Thias’s death, when, you remem- 
ber, Lisbeth praised her deft movements, and even gave a modi- 
fied approval to her porridge. But in that long interval 
Dinah had made great advances in household cleverness : and 
this morning, since Seth was there to help, she was bent on 
bringing everything to a pitch of cleanliness and order that 
would have satisfied her aunt Poyser. The cottage was far 
from that standard at present, for Lisbeth’s rheumatism had 
forced her to give up her old habits of dilettante scouring 
and polishing. When the kitchen was to her mind, Dinah went 
into the new room, where Adam had been writing the night 
before, to see what sweeping and dusting were needed there. 
She opened the window and let in the fresh morning air, and the 
smell of the sweetbrier, and the bright low-slanting rays of the 
early sun, which made a glory about her pale face and pale au- 
burn hair as she held the long brush, and swept, singing to her- 
self in a very low tone — like a sweet summer murmur that 
you have to listen for very closely — one of Charles Wesley’s 
hymns : — 

“ Eternal Beam of Light Divine, 

Fountain of unexhausted love, 

In whom the Father’s glories shine, 

Through earth beneath and heaven above ; 

“Jesus ! the weary wanderer’s rest, 

Give me thy easy yoke to hear ; 

With steadfast patience arm my breast. 

With spotless love and holy fear. 

“ Speak to my warring passions, ‘ Peace ! * 

Say to my trembling heart, £ Be still!* 

Thy power my strength and fortress is, 

For all things serve thy sovereign will.** 


508 


ADAM BEDE. 


She laid by the brush and took up the duster ; and if you 
had ever lived in Mrs. Poyser’s household, you would know 
how the duster behaved in Dinah’s hand — how it went into 
every small corner, and on every ledge in and out of sight — 
how it went again and again round every bar of the chairs, and 
every leg, and under and over everything that lay on the table, 
till it came to Adam’s papers and rulers, and the open desk 
near them. Dinah dusted up to the very edge of these, and 
then hesitated, looking at them with a longing but timid eye. 
It was painful to see how much dust there was among them. 
As she was looking in this way, she heard Seth’s step just out- 
side the open door, towards which her back was turned, and 
said, raising her clear treble — 

“ Seth, is your brother wrathful when his papers are 
stirred ? ” 

“ Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places,” 
said a deep strong voice, not Seth’s. 

It was as if Dinah had put her hands unawares on a vibrat- 
ing chord ; she was shaken with an intense thrill, and for the 
instant felt nothing else ; then she knew her cheeks were glow- 
ing, and dared not look round, but stood still, distressed because 
she could not say good-morning in a friendly way. Adam, 
finding that she did not look round so as to see the smile on 
his face, was afraid she had thought him serious about his 
wrathfulness, and went up to her, so that she was obliged to 
look at him. 

“ What ! you think I ’m a cross fellow at home, Dinah ? ” he 
said, smilingly. 

“Nay,” said Dinah, looking up with timid eyes, “ not so. 
But you might be put about by finding things meddled with ; 
and even the man Moses, the meekest of men, was wrathful 
sometimes.” 

“Come, then,” said Adam, looking at her affectionately, 
“ I ’ll help you move the things, and put ’em back again, and 
then they can’t get wrong. You ’re getting to be your aunt’s 
own niece, I see, for particularness.” 

They began their little task together, but Dinah had not 
recovered herself sufficiently to think of any remark, and 


IN THE COTTAGE. 


509 


Adam looked at her uneasily. Dinah, he thought, had seemed 
to disapprove him somehow lately ; she had not been so kind 
and open to him as she used to be. He wanted her to look at 
him, and be as pleased as he was himself with doing this bit 
of playful work. But Dinah did not look at him — it was 
easy for her to avoid looking at the tall man ; and when at 
last there was no more dusting to be done, and no further 
excuse for him to linger near her, he could bear it no longer, 
and said, in rather a pleading tone — 

“ Dinah, you ’re not displeased with me for anything, are 
you ? X ’ve not said or done anything to make you think ill 
of me ? ” 

The question surprised her, and relieved her by giving a 
new course to her feeling. She looked up at him now, quite 
earnestly, almost with the tears coming, and said — 

“ Oh, no, Adam ! how could you think so ? ” 

“ I could n’t bear you not to feel as much a friend to me 
as I do to you,” said Adam. “ And you don’t know the value 
I set on the very thought of you, Dinah. That was what I 
meant yesterday, when I said I ’d be content for you to go, if 
you thought right. I meant, the thought of you was worth so 
much to me, I should feel I ought to be thankful, and not 
grumble, if you see right to go away. You know I do mind 
parting with you, Dinah ? ” 

“Yes, dear friend,” said Dinah, trembling, but trying to 
speak calmly, “I know you have a brother’s heart towards 
me, and we shall often be with one another in spirit ; but at 
this season I am in heaviness through manifold temptations : 
you must not mark me. I feel called to leave my kindred for 
a while ; but it is a trial : the flesh is weak.” 

Adam saw that it pained her to be obliged to answer. 

“ I hurt you by talking about it, Dinah,” he said : “ I ’ll say 
no more. Let ’s see if Seth ’s ready with breakfast now.” 

That is a simple scene, reader. But it is almost certain 
that you, too, have been in love — perhaps, even, more than 
once, though you may not choose to say so to all your femi- 
nine friends. If so, you will no more think the slight words, 
the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by which two huma^ 


510 


ADAM LEDE. 


souls approach each other gradually, like two little quivering 
rain-streams, before they mingle into one — you will no more 
fhink these things trivial than you will think the first-detected 
signs of coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint, 
indescribable something in the air and in the song of the 
birds, and the tiniest perceptible budding on the hedgerow 
branches. Those slight words and looks and touches are part 
of the soul’s language ; and the finest language, I believe, 
is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as “ light,” 
“ sound,” “ stars,” “ music,” — words really not worth looking 
at, or hearing, in themselves, any more than “ chips ” or 
“ sawdust : ” it is only that they happen to be the signs of 
something unspeakably great and beautiful. I am of opinion 
that love is a great and beautiful thing too ; and if you agree 
with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and saw- 
dust to you : they will rather be like those little words, 
“ light ” and “ music,” stirring the long-winding fibres of your 
memory, and enriching your present with your most precious 
oast. 


CHAPTER LL 

SUNDAY MORNING. 

Lisbeth’s touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear 
serious enough to detain Dinah another night from the Hall 
Farm, now she had made up her mind to leave her aunt so 
soon : and at evening the friends must part. “ For a long 
while,” Dinah had said; for she, had told Lisbeth of her 
resolve. 

“ Then it’ll be for all my life, an’ I shall ne’er see thee 
again,” said Lisbeth. “ Long while ! I ’n got no long while 
t’ live. An’ I shall be took bad an’ die, an’ thee canst ne’er 
come a-nigh me, an’ I shall die a-longing for thee.” 

That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; 
for Adam was not in the house, and so she put no restraint 
on her complaining. She had tried poor Dinah by returning 


SUNDAY MORNING. 


511 


again and again to the question, why she must go away ; and 
refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to her nothing but 
whim and “ contrairiness ; ” and still more, by regretting that 
she “ couldna ha’ one o’ the lads,” and be her daughter. 

“ Thee couldstna put up wi’ Seth,” she said : “ he isna diver 
enough for thee, happen ; but he ’d ha’ been very good t’ thee 
— he ’s as handy as can be at doin’ things for me when I ’m 
bad ; an’ he ’s as fond o’ the Bible an’ chappellin’ as thee art 
thysen. But happen, thee’dst like a husband better as isna 
just the cut o’ thysen : the runnin’ brook isna athirst for th* 
rain. Adam ’ud ha’ done for thee — I know he would ; an’ he 
might come t’ like thee well enough, if thee ’dst stop. But 
he ’s as stubborn as th’ iron bar — there ’s no bending him no 
way but ’s own. But he ’d be a fine husband for anybody, be 
they who they will, so looked-on an’ so diver as he is. And 
he ’d be rare an’ lovin’ : it does me good on’y a look o’ the lad’s 
eye, when he means kind tow’rt me.” 

Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth’s closest looks and ques- 
tions by finding little tasks of housework, that kept her moving 
about ; and as soon as Seth came home in the evening she put 
on her bonnet to go. It touched Dinah keenly to say the last 
good-by, and still more to look round on her way across the 
fields, and see the old woman still standing at the door, gazing 
after her till she must have been the faintest speck in the dim 
aged eyes. “ The God of love and peace be with them,” Dinah 
prayed, as she looked back from the last stile. “Make them 
glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, 
and the years wherein they have seen evil. It is thy will that 
I should part from them ; let me have no will but thine.” 

Bisbeth turned into the house at last, and sat down in the 
workshop near Seth, who was busying himself there with fit- 
ting some bits of turned wood he had brought from the village, 
into a small workbox which he meant to give to Dinah before 
she went away. 

“ Thee ’t see her again o’ Sunday afore she goes,” were her 
first words. “If thee wast good for anything, thee’dst make 
her come in again o’ Sunday night wi’ thee, and see me once 
more,” 


512 


ADAM BEDE. 


“ Nay, mother/’ said Seth, “ Dinah ’ud be sure to come again 
if she saw right to come. I should have no need to persuade 
her. She only thinks it ’ud be troubling thee for nought, Just 
to come in to say good-by over again.” 

“ She ’d ne’er go away, I know, if Adam ’ud be fond on her 
an’ marry her ; but everything ’s so contrairy,” said Lisbeth, 
with a burst of vexation. 

Seth paused a moment, and looked up, with a slight blush, 
at his mother’s face. “ What ! has she said anything o’ that 
sort to thee, mother ? ” he said, in a lower tone. 

“ Said ? nay, she ’ll say nothin’. It ’s on’y the men as have 
to wait till folks say things afore they find ’em out.” 

“Well, but what makes thee think so, mother ? What’s 
put it into thy head ? ” 

“ It ’s no matter what ’s put it into my head : my head ’s 
none so hollow as it must get in, an’ nought to put it there. 1 
know she ’s fond on him, as I know th’ wind ’s cornin’ in at 
the door, an’ that ’s anoof. An’ he might be willin’ to marry 
her if he know’d she ’s fond on him, but he ’ll ne’er think on’t 
if somebody doesna put it into ’s head.” 

His mother’s suggestion about Dinah’s feeling towards Adam 
was not quite a new thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed 
him, lest she should herself undertake to open Adam’s eyes. 
He was not sure about Dinah’s feeling, and he thought he was 
sure about Adam’s. 

“Nay, mother, nay,” he said, earnestly, “thee mustna think 
o’ speaking o’ such things to Adam. Thee ’st no right to 
say what Dinah’s feelings are if she hasna told thee ; and i* 
’ud do nothing but mischief to say such things to Adam : he 
feels very grateful and affectionate toward Dinah, but he ’s 
no thoughts towards her that ’ud incline him to make her 
his wife ; and I don’t believe Dinah ’ud marry him either. I 
don’t think she ’ll marry at all.” 

“ Eh,” said Lisbeth, impatiently. “ Thee think’ st so ’cause 
she wouldna ha’ thee. She ’ll ne’er marry thee ; thee mightst 
as well like her t’ ha’ thy brother.” 

Seth was hurt. “ Mother,” he said, in a remonstrating tone, 
u don’t think that of me. I should be as thankful t’ have her 


SUNDAY MOKNING. 


513 


for a sister as thee wouldst t’ have her for a daughter. I’ve 
no more thoughts about myself in that thing, and I shall take 
it hard if eve*r thee say’st it again.” 

“ Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi’ sayin’ things 
arena as I say they are.” 

“ But, mother,” said Seth, “ thee ’dst be doing Dinah a wrong 
by telling Adam what thee think’st about her. It ’ud do noth- 
ing but mischief ; for it ’ud make Adam uneasy if he doesna 
feel the same to her. And I ’m pretty sure he feels nothing 
o’ the sort.” 

“ Eh, donna tell me what thee ’t sure on ; thee know’st nought 
about it. What ’s he allays goin’ to the Poysers’ for, if he 
didna want V see her ? He goes twice where he used t’ go 
once. Happen he knowsna as he wants t’ see her ; he knowsna 
as I put salt in ’s broth, but he ’d miss it pretty quick if it 
warna there. He ’ll ne’er think o’ marrying if it isna put 
into ’s head ; an’ if thee ’dst any love for thy mother, thee ’dst 
put him up to ’t, an’ not let her go away out o’ my sight, when 
I might ha’ her to make a bit o’ comfort for me afore I go to 
bed to my old man under the white thorn.” 

“Nay, mother,” said Seth, “thee mustna think me unkind ; 
but I should be going against my conscience if I took upon me 
to say what Dinah’s feelings are. And besides that, I think I 
should give offence to Adam by speaking to him at all about 
marrying; and I counsel thee not to do’t. Thee may’st be 
quite deceived about Dinah ; nay, I ’m pretty sure, by words 
she said to me last Sabbath, as she ’s no mind to marry.” 

“ Eh, thee ’t as contrairy as the rest on ’em. If it war sum- 
mat I didna want, it ’ud be done fast enough.” 

Lisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the 
workshop, leaving Seth in much anxiety lest she should dis- 
turb Adam’s mind about Dinah. He consoled himself after a 
time with reflecting that, since Adam’s trouble, Lisbeth had 
been very timid about speaking to him on matters of feeling, 
and that she would hardly dare to approach this tenderest of 
all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would not take 
much notice of what she said. 

Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in 

v OL. 3. 


514 


ADAM BEDE. 


restraint by timidity ; and during the next three days, th§ 
intervals in which she had an opportunity of speaking to 
Adam were too rare and short to cause her any strong temp- 
tation. But in her long solitary hours she brooded over her 
regretful thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very near 
that point of unmanageable strength when thoughts are apt to 
take wing out of their secret nest in a startling manner. And 
on Sunday morning, when Seth went away to chapel at Tred- 
dleston, the dangerous opportunity came. 

Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to 
Lisbeth ; for as there was no service at Hayslope church till 
the afternoon, Adam was always at home, doing nothing but 
reading, an occupation in which she could venture to interrupt 
him. Moreover, she had always a better dinner than usual to 
prepare for her sons — very frequently for Adam and herself 
alone, Seth being often away the entire day ; and the smell of 
the roast-meat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the 
clock ticking in a peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam 
seated near her in his best clothes, doing nothing very impor- 
tant, so that she could go and stroke her hand across his hair 
if she liked, and see him look up at her and smile, while Gyp, 
rather jealous, poked his muzzle up between them, — all these 
things made poor Lisbeth’s earthly paradise. 

The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was 
his large pictured Bible, and this morning it lay open before 
him on the round white deal table in the kitchen ; for he sat 
there in spite of the fire, because he knew his mother liked to 
have him with her, and it was the only day in the week when 
he could indulge her in that way. You would have liked to 
see Adam reading his Bible : he never opened it on a week- 
day, and so he came to it as a holiday book, serving him for 
history, biography, and poetry. He held one hand thrust 
between his waistcoat buttons, and the other ready to turn the 
pages ; and in the course of the morning you would have seen 
many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved in semi- 
articulation — it was when he came to a speech that he could 
fancy himself uttering, such as Samuel’s dying speech to the 
people ; then his eyebrows would be raised, and the corners of 


SUNDAY MORNING. 


515 


his mouth would quiver a little with sad sympathy — some- 
thing, perhaps old Isaac’s meeting with his son, touched him 
closely ; at other times, over the New Testament, a very sol- 
emn look would come upon his face, and he would every now 
and then shake his head in serious assent, or just lift up his 
hand and let it fall again ; and on some mornings, when he 
read in the Apocrypha, of which he was very fond, the son 
of Sirach’s keen-edged words would bring a delighted smile, 
though he also enjoyed the freedom of occasionally differing 
from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the Articles 
quite well, as became a good churchman. 

Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always 
sat opposite to him and watched him, till she could rest no 
longer without going up to him and giving him a caress, to 
call his attention to her. This morning he was reading the 
Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth had been stand- 
ing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair, which 
was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at 
the large page with silent wonderment at the mystery of let- 
ters. She was encouraged to continue this caress, because 
when she first went up to him, he had thrown himself back in 
his chair to look at her affectionately and say, “ Why, mother, 
thee look’st rare and hearty this morning. Eh, Gyp wants me 
t’ look at him : he can’t abide to think I love thee the best.” 
Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so many 
things. And now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and 
it was a picture — that of the angel seated on the great stone 
that has been rolled away from the sepulchre. This picture 
had one strong association in Lisbeth’s memory, for she had 
been reminded of it when she first saw Dinah ; and Adam had 
no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book sideways that 
they might look at the angel, than she said, “That’s her- — 
that’s Dinah.” 

Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel’s face, 
said — 

“It is a bit like her; but Dinah’s prettier, I think.” 

“ Well, then, if thee think’st her so pretty, why arn’t fond 
on her ? ” 


516 


ADAM BEDE. 


Adam looked up in surprise. “Why, mother, dost think I 
don’t set store by Dinah ? ” 

“Nay,” said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet 
feeling that she had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, 
whatever mischief they might do. “ What ’s th’ use o’ settin’ 
store by things as are thirty mile off ? If thee wast fond 
enough on her thee wouldstna let her go away.” 

“ But I ’ve no right t’ hinder her, if she thinks well,” said 
Adam, looking at his book as if he wanted to go on reading. 
He foresaw a series of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth 
sat down again in the chair opposite to him, as she said — 

“ But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy.” 
Lisbeth dared not venture beyond a vague phrase yet. 

“ Contrairy, mother ? ” Adam said, looking up again in 
some anxiety. “What have I done ? What dost mean ? ” 

“ Why, thee ’t never look at nothin’, nor think o’ nothin’, but 
thy figurin’ an’ thy work,” said Lisbeth, half crying. “ An’ 
dost think thee canst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast a 
man cut out o’ timber ? An’ what wut do when thy mother ’s 
gone, an’ nobody to take care on thee as thee gett’st a bit o’ 
victual comfortable i’ the mornin’ ? ” 

“ What hast got i’ thy mind, mother ? ” said Adam, vexed 
at this whimpering. “ I canna see what thee ’t driving at. Is 
there anything I could do for thee as I don’t do ? ” 

“ Ay, an’ that there is. Thee might’st do as I should ha’ 
somebody wi’ me to comfort me a bit, an’ wait on me when 
I ’m bad, an’ be good to me.” 

“Well, mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body 
i’ th’ house t’ help thee ? It isna by my wish as thee hast a 
stroke o’ work to do. We can afford it — I’ve told thee often 
enough. It ’ud be a deal better for us.” 

“ Eh, what ’s the use o’ talking o’ tidy bodies, when thee 
mean’st one o’ th’ wenches out o’ th’ village, or somebody from 
Treddles’on as I ne’er set eyes on i’ my life? I’d sooner 
make a shift an’ get into my own coffin afore I die, nor ha' 
them folks to put me in.” 

Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was 
the utmost severity he could show towards his mother on a 


SUNDAY MORNING. 


517 


Sunday morning. But Lisbeth had gone too far now to check 
herself, and after scarcely a minute’s quietness she began 
again. 

“Thee mightst know well enough who ’t is I’d like t’ ha’ 
wi’ me. It isna many folks I send for t’ come an’ see me, I 
reckon. An’ thee ’st had the fetchin’ on her times enow.” 

“ Thee mean’st Dinah, mother, I know,” said Adam. “ But 
it ’s no use setting thy mind on what can’t be. If Dinah ’ud 
be willing to stay at Hayslope, it is n’t likely she can come 
away from her aunt’s house, where they hold her like a daugh- 
ter, and where she ’s more bound than she is to us. If it had 
been so that she could ha’ married Seth, that ’ud ha’ been a 
great blessing to us, but we can’t have things just as we like 
in this life. Thee must try and make up thy mind to do 
without her.” 

“ Nay, but I canna ma’ up my mind, when she ’s just cut out 
for thee ; an’ nought shall ma’ me believe as God didna make 
her an’ send her there o’ purpose for thee. What ’s it sinnify 
about her bein’ a Methody ? It ’ud happen wear out on her 
wi’ marryin’.” 

Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his 
mother. He understood now what she had been aiming at 
from the beginning of the conversation. It was as unreason- 
able, impracticable a wish as she had ever urged, but he could 
not help being moved by so entirely new an idea. The chief 
point, however, was to chase away the notion from his mother’s 
mind as quickly as possible v 

“Mother,” he said, gravely, “thee’t talking wild. Don’t 
let me hear thee say such things again. It ’s no good talking 
o’ what can never be. Dinah ’s not for marrying ; she ’s fixed 
her heart on a different sort o’ life.” 

“Very like,” said Lisbeth, impatiently, “very like she’s 
none for marr’ing, when them as she ’d be willin’ t’ marry 
wonna ax her. I shouldna ha’ been for marr’ing thy feyther 
if he ’d ne’er axed me ; an’ she ’s as fond o’ thee as e’er I war 
o’ Thias, poor fellow.” 

The blood rushed to Adam’s face, and for a few moments he 
was not quite conscious where he was: his mother and the 


518 


ADAM BEDE. 


kitchen had vanished for him, and he saw nothing but Dinahs 
face turned up towards his. It seemed as if there were a 
resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up very speedily 
from that dream (the waking was chill and sad) ; for it would 
have been very foolish in him to believe his mother’s words ; 
she could have no ground for them. He was prompted to ex- 
press his disbelief very strongly — perhaps that he might call 
forth the proofs, if there were any to be offered. 

“ What dost say such things for, mother, when thee ’st got 
no foundation for ’em ? Thee know’st nothing as gives thee 
a right to say that.” 

“ Then I knowna nought as gi’es me a right to say as the 
year ’s turned, for all I feel it fust thing when I get up i’ th’ 
morning. She isna fond o’ Seth, I reckon, is she ? She doesna 
want to marry him? But I can see as she doesna behave 
tow’rt thee as she does tow’rt Seth. She makes no more o’ 
t Seth’s coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she ’s all of a 
tremble when thee’t a-sittin’ down by her at breakfast, an’ 
a-looking at her. Thee think’st thy mother knows nought, but 
she war alive afore thee wast born.” 

“ But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love ? ” 
said Adam, anxiously. 

“ Eh, what else should it mane ? It isna hate, I reckon. 
An’ what should she do but love thee ? Thee ’t made to be 
loved — for where ’s there a straighter, cliverer man ? An’ 
what ’s it sinnify her bein’ a Methody ? It ’s on’y the mari- 
gold i’ th’ parridge.” 

Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking 
down at the book on the table, without seeing any of the let- 
ters. He was trembling like a gold-seeker, who sees the strong 
promise of gold, but sees in the same moment a sickening vis- 
ion of disappointment. He could not trust his mother’s in- 
sight ; she had seen what she wished to see. And yet — and 
yet, now the suggestion had been made to him, he remembered 
,so many things, very slight things, like the stirring of the 
water by an imperceptible breeze, which seemed to him some 
confirmation of his mother’s words. 

Liabeth noticed that he^was mpved. She went op. — 


SUNDAY MORNING. 


519 


w An’ thee *t find out as thee ’t poorly aff when she ’s gone. 
Thee ’t fonder on her nor thee know’st. Thy eyes follow her 
about, welly as Gyp’s follow thee.” 

Adam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, 
and went oat into the fields. 

The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine 
which we should know was not summer’s, even if there wer*> 
not the touches of yellow on the lime and chestnut : the Sun- 
day sunshine, too, which has more than autumnal calmness for 
the working man : the morning sunshine, which still leaves 
the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow of 
the bushy hedgerows. 

Adam needed the calm influence ; he was amazed at the way 
in which this new thought of Dinah’s love had taken posses- 
sion of him, with an overmastering power that made all other 
feelings give way before the impetuous desire to know that 
the thought was true. Strange, that till that moment the pos- 
sibility of their ever being lovers had never crossed his mind, 
and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out towards that 
possibility; he had no more doubt or hesitation as to his own 
wishes than the bird that flies towards the opening through 
which the daylight gleams and the breath of heaven enters. 

The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him ; but not by 
preparing him with resignation to the disappointment if his 
mother — if he himself, proved to be mistaken about Dinah : 
it soothed him by gentle encouragement of his hopes. Her 
love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed to make 
one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike. And 
Dinah was so bound up with the sad memories of his first pas- 
sion, that he was not forsaking them, but rather giving them a 
new sacredness by loving her. Nay, his love for her had grown 
out of that past : it was the noon of that morning. 

But Seth ? % Would the lad be hurt ? Hardly ; for he had 
seemed quite contented of late, and there was no selfish jeal- 
ousy in him ; he had never been jealous of his mother’s fond- 
ness for Adam. But had he seen anything of what their 
mother talked about ? Adam longed to know this, for he 
thought he could trust Set.’ s observation better than his 


520 


ADAM BEDE. 


mother’s. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah ; 
and, with this intention in his mind, he walked back to the 
cottage and said to his mother — 

“ Did Seth say anything to thee about when he was coming 
home ? Will he be back to dinner ? ” 

“ Ay, lad ; he ’ll be back for a wonder. He isna gone 
to Treddles’on. He ’s gone somewhere else a-preachin’ and 
a-prayin\” 

“ Hast any notion which way he ’s gone ? ” said Adam. 

“Nay, but he aften goes to th’ Common. Thee know’st 
more o’s goings nor I do.” 

Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content 
himself with walking about the near fields and getting sight 
of him as soon as possible. That would not be for more than 
an hour to come, for Seth would scarcely be at home much 
before their dinner-time, which was twelve o’clock. But Adam 
could not sit down to his reading again, and he sauntered 
along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles, with 
eager, intense eyes, which looked as if they saw something 
very vividly ; but it was not the brook or the willows, not the 
fields or the sky. Again and again his vision was interrupted 
by wonder at the strength of his own feeling, at the strength 
and sweetness of this new love — almost like the wonder a 
man feels at the added power he finds in himself for an art 
which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that the poets 
have said so many fine things about our first love, so few 
about our later love ? Are their first poems their best ? or are 
not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their 
larger experience, their deeper-rooted affections ? The boy’s 
flute-like voice has its own spring charm ; but the man should 
yield a richer, deeper music. 

At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and 
Adam hastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought 
something unusual must have happened : but when Adam 
came up, his face said plainly enough that it was nothing 
alarming. 

“ Where hast been ? ” said Adam, when they were side by 
fide. 


SUNDAY MORNING. 


521 


a I ’ ve been to the Common/’ said Seth. “ Dinah ’s been 
speaking the Word to a little company of hearer’s at Brim- 
stone’s, as they call him. They ’re folks as never go to church 
hardly — them on the Common — but they ’ll go and hear 
Dinah a bit. She ’s been speaking with power this forenoon 
from the words, 1 I came not to call the righteous, but sinners 
to repentance.’ And there was a little thing happened as was 
pretty to see. The women mostly bring their children with 
’em, but to-day there was one stout curly-headed fellow about 
three or four year old, that I never saw there before. He was 
as naughty as could be at the beginning while I was praying, 
and while we was singing, but when we all sat down and 
Dinah began to speak, th’ young un stood stock-still all at 
once, and began to look at her with ’s mouth open, and pres- 
ently he ran away from ’s mother and went up to Dinah, and 
pulled at her, like a little dog, for her to take notice of him. 
So Dinah lifted him up and held th’ lad on her lap, while she 
went on speaking; and he was as good as could be till he 
went to sleep — and the mother cried to see him.” 

“ It ’s a pity she shouldna be a mother herself,” said Adam, 
“ so fond as the children are of her. Dost think she ’s quite 
fixed against marrying, Seth? Dost think nothing ’ud turn 
her ? ” 

There was something peculiar in his brother’s tone, which 
made Seth steal a glance at his face before he answered. 

“ It ’ud be wrong of me to say nothing ’ud turn her,” he an- 
swered. “ But if thee mean’st it about myself, I ’ve given up 
all thoughts as she can ever be my wife. She calls me her 
brother, and that ’s enough.” 

“ But dost think she might ever get fond enough of any- 
body else to be willing to marry ’em ? ” said Adam, rather 
shyly. 

“ Well,” said Seth, after some hesitation, “ it ’s crossed my 
mind sometimes o’ late as she might ; but Dinah ’ud let no 
fondness for the creature draw her out o’ the path as she be- 
lieved God had marked out for her. If she thought the lead' 
ing was not from him, she ’s not one to be brought under the 
power of it. And she’s allays seemed clear about that — as 


522 


ADAM BEDE. 


her work was to minister t’ others, and make no home for her- 
self i’ this world.” 

“ But suppose,” said Adam, earnestly, “ suppose there was a 
man as ’ud let her do just the same and not interfere with her, 
— she might do a good deal o’ what she does now, just as well 
when she was married as when she was single. Other women ( 
of her sort have married — that’s to say, not just like her, 
but women as preached and attended on the sick and needy. 
There ’s Mrs. Fletcher as she talks of.” 

A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and 
laying his hand on Adam’s shoulder, said, “ Why, wouldst like 
her to marry thee , brother ? ” 

Adam looked doubtfully at Seth’s inquiring eyes, and said, 
“Wouldst be hurt if she was to be fonder o’ me than o’ 
thee ? ” 

“ Hay,” said Seth, warmly, “ how canst think it ? Have 1 
felt thy trouble so little, that I shouldna feel thy joy ? ” 

There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and 
then Seth said — 

“ I ’d no notion as thee ’dst ever think of her for a wife.” 

“ But is it o’ any use to think of her ? ” said Adam — “ what 
dost say ? Mother ’s made me as I hardly know where I am, 
with what she ’s been saying to me this forenoon. She says 
she ’s sure Dinah feels for me more than common, and ’ud be 
willing t’ have me. But I ’m afraid she speaks without book. 
I want to know if thee ’st seen anything.” 

“It’s a nice point to speak about,” said Seth, “and I’m 
afraid o’ being wrong; besides, we ’ve no right t’ intermeddle 
with people’s feelings when they wouldn’t tell ’em themselves.” 

Seth paused. 

“ But thee mightst ask her,” he said, presently. “ She took 
no offence at me for asking, and thee ’st more right than I had, 
only thee ’t not in the Society. But Dinah does n’t hold wi’ 
them as are for keeping the Society so strict to themselves. 
She does n’t mind about making folks enter the Society, so as 
they ’re fit t’ enter the kingdom o’ God. Some o’ the brethren 
at Treddles’on are displeased with her for that.” 

“ Where will she be the rest o’ the day ? ” said Adam. 


ADAM AND DINAH. 


523 

“ She said she should n’t leave the Farm again to-day,” said 
Seth, il because it ’s her last Sabbath there, and she ’s going t’ 
read out o’ the big Bible wi’ the children.” 

Adam thought — but did not say — “ Then I T1 go this 
afternoon; for if I go to church my thoughts ’ull be with 
her all the while. They must sing th’ anthem without me 
to-day.” 


CHAPTER LII. 

ADAM AND DINAH. 

It was about three o’clock when Adam entered the farm- 
yard and roused Alick and the dogs from their Sunday dozing. 
Alick said everybody was gone to church “ but th’ young mis- 
sis ” — so he called Dinah ; but this did not disappoint Adam, 
although the “ everybody ” was so liberal as to include Haney 
the dairymaid, whose works of necessity were not unfrequently 
incompatible with church-going. 

There was perfect stillness about the house : the doors were 
all closed, and the very stones and tubs seemed quieter than 
usual. Adam heard the water gently dripping from the pump 
— that was the only sound ; and he knocked at the house door 
rather softly, as was suitable in that stillness. 

The door opened, and Dinah stood before him, coloring 
deeply with the great surprise of seeing Adam at this hour, 
when she knew it was his regular practice to be at church. 
Yesterday he would have said to her without any difficulty, 
“I came to see you, Dinah: I knew the rest were not at home.” 
But to-day something prevented him from saying that, and he 
put out his hand to her in silence. Neither of them spoke, 
and yet both wished they could speak, as Adam entered, and 
they sat down. Dinah took the chair she had just left; it was 
at the corner of the table near the window, and there was a 
book lying on the table, but it was not open : she had been 
{Sitting perfectly still, looking at the small bit of clear fire in 


524 


ADAM BEDE. 


the bright grate. Adam sat down opposite her, in Mr. Poyser’s 
three-cornered chair. 

“ Your mother is not ill again, I hope, Adam ? ” Dinah said, 
recovering herself. “ Seth said she was well this morning.” 

« No, she ’s very hearty to-day,” said Adam, happy in the 
signs of Dinah's feeling at the sight of him, but shy. 

“ There's nobody at home, you see,” Dinah said; “but 
you’ll wait. You’ve been hindered from going to church 
to-day, doubtless.” 

“ Yes,” Adam said, and then paused, before he added, “ I 
was thinking about you : that was the reason.” 

This confession was very awkward and sudden, Adam felt ; 
for he thought Dinah must understand all he meant. But the 
frankness of the words caused her immediately to interpret 
them into a renewal of his brotherly regrets that she was 
going away, and she answered calmly — 

“ Do not be careful and troubled for me, Adam. I have all 
things and abound at Snowfield. And my mind is at rest, for 
I am not seeking my own will in going.” 

“ But if things were different, Dinah,” said Adam, hesitat- 
ingly — “ if you knew things that perhaps you don’t know 
now — ” 

Dinah looked at him inquiringly, but instead of going on, 
he reached a chair and brought it near the corner of the table 
where she was sitting. She wondered, and was afraid — and 
the next moment her thoughts flew to the past : was it some- 
thing about those distant unhappy ones that she did n’t know ? 

Adam looked at her : it was so sweet to look at her eyes, 
which had now a self-forgetful questioning in them, — for a 
moment he forgot that he wanted to say anything, or that it 
was necessary to tell her what he meant. 

“ Dinah,” he said suddenly, taking both her hands between 
his, “ I love you with my whole heart and soul. I love you 
next to God who made me.” 

Dinah’s lips became pale, like her cheeks, and she trembled 
violently under the shock of painful joy. Her hands were 
cold as death between Adam’s. She could not draw them 
away, because he held them fast. 


ADAM AND DINAH. 525 

“ Don’t tell me you can’t love me, Dinah. Don’t tell me we 
must part, and pass our lives away from one another.” 

The tears were trembling in Dinah’s eyes, and they fell before 
she could answer. But she spoke in a quiet low voice. 

“ Yes, dear Adam, we must submit to another Will. We 
must part.” 

“Not if you love me, Dinah — not if you love me,” Adam 
said, passionately. “ Tell me — tell me if you can love me 
better than a brother ? ” 

Dinah was too entirely reliant on the Supreme guidance to 
attempt to achieve any end by a deceptive concealment. She 
was recovering now from the first shock of emotion, and she 
looked at Adam with simple sincere eyes as she said — 

Yes, Adam, my heart is drawn strongly towards you ; and 
of my own will, if I had no clear showing to the contrary, I 
could find my happiness in being near you, and ministering to 
you continually. I fear I should forget to rejoice and weep 
with others ; nay, I fear I should forget the Divine presence, 
and seek no love but yours.” 

Adam did not speak immediately. They sat looking at each 
other in delicious silence, — for the first sense of mutual love 
excludes other feelings ; it will have the soul all to itself. 

“ Then, Dinah,” Adam said at last, “ how can there be any- 
thing contrary to what’s right in our belonging to one another, 
and spending our lives together ? Who put this great love 
into our hearts ? Can anything be holier than that ? For 
we can help one another in everything as is good. I ’d never 
think o’ putting myself between you and God, and saying you 
oughtn’t to do this, and you oughtn’t to do that. You’d 
follow your conscience as much as you do now.” 

“ Yes, Adam,” Dinah said, “ I know marriage is a holy state 
for those who are truly called to it, and have no other draw- 
ing ; but from my childhood upward I have been led towards 
another path ; all my peace and my joy have come from hav- 
ing no life of my own, no wants, no wishes for myself, and 
living only in God and those of his creatures whose sorrows 
and joys he has given me to know. Those have been very 
blessed years to me, and I feel that if I was to listen to any 


526 


ADAM BEDE. 


voice that would draw me aside from that path, 1 should be 
turning my back on the light that has shone upon me, and 
darkness and doubt would take hold of me. We could not 
bless each other, Adam, if there were doubts in my soul, and 
if I yearned, when it was too late, after that better part which 
had once been given me and I had put away from me.” 

“But if a new feeling has come into your mind, Dinah, and 
if you love me so as to be willing to be nearer to me than to 
other people, is n’t that a sign that it ’s right for you to change 
your life ? Does n’t the love make it right when nothing else 
would ? ” 

“Adam, my mind is full of questionings about that; for 
now, since you tell me of your strong love towards me, what 
was clear to me has become dark again. I felt before that giy 
heart was too strongly drawn towards you, and that your heart 
was not as mine ; and the thought of you had taken hold of 
me, so that my soul had lost its freedom, and was becoming 
enslaved to an earthly affection, which made me anxious and 
careful about what- should befall myself. For in all other 
affection I had been content with any small return, or with 
none ; but my heart was beginning to hunger after an equal 
love from you. And I had no doubt that I must wrestle 
against that as a great temptation ; and the command was 
clear that I must go away.” 

“ But now, dear, dear Dinah, now you know I love you better 
than you love me . . . it’s all different now. You won’t think 
o’ going : you ’ll stay, and be my dear wife, and I shall thank 
God for giving me my life as I never thanked him before.” 

“Adam, it’s hard to me to turn a deaf ear . . . you 
know it ’s hard ; but a great fear is upon me. It seems to me 
as if you were stretching out your arms to me, and beckoning 
me to come and take my ease, and live for my own delight, 
and Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, was standing looking towards 
me, and pointing to the sinful, and suffering, and afflicted. I 
have seen that again and again when I have been sitting in 
stillness and darkness, and a great terror has come upon me 
lest I should become hard, and a lov p r of self, and no more 
bear willingly the Redeemer’s cross.” 


ADAM AND DINAH. 


527 


Dinah had closed her eyes, and a faint shudder went through 
her. “ Adam,” she went on, “ you would n’t desire that we 
should seek a good through any unfaithfulness to the light 
that is in us ; you would n’t believe that could be a good. We 
are of one mind in that.” 

“Yes, Dinah,” said Adam, sadly, “I’ll never be the man 
t’ urge you against your conscience. But I can’t give up the 
hope that you may come to see different. I don’t believe 
your loving me could shut up your heart ; it ’s only adding to 
what you ’ve been before, not taking away from it : for it 
seems to me it ’s the same with love and happiness as with 
sorrow — the more we know of it the better we can feel what 
other people’s lives are or might be, and so we shall only be 
more tender to ’em, and wishful to help ’em. The more knowl- 
edge a man has, the better he ’ll do ’s work ; and feeling ’s a 
sort o’ knowledge.” 

Dinah was silent ; her eyes were fixed in contemplation of 
something visible only to herself. Adam went on presently 
with his pleading — 

“ And you can do almost as much as you do now. I won’t 
ask you to go to church with me of a Sunday ; you shall go 
where you like among the people, and teach ’em ; for though 
I like church best, I don’t put my soul above yours, as if my 
words was better for you to follow than your own conscience. 
And you can help the sick just as much, and you ’ll have 
more means o’ making ’em a bit comfortable ; and you ’ll be 
among all your own friends as love you, and can help ’em and 
be a blessing to ’em till their dying day. Surely, Dinah, 
you ’d be as near to God as if you was living lonely and away 
from me.” 

Dinah made no answer for some time. Adam was still 
holding her hands, and looking at her with almost trembling 
anxiety, when she turned her grave loving eyes on his, and 
said, in rather a sad voice — 

“ Adam, there is truth in what you say, and there ’s many 
of the brethren and sisters who have greater strength than I 
have, and find their hearts enlarged by the cares of husband 
and kindred. But I have not faith that it would be so with 


528 


ADAM BEDE. 


me, for since my affections have been set above measure oo 
you, I have had less peace and joy in God ; I have felt as it 
were a division in my heart. And think how it is with me, 
Adam : — that life I have led is like a land I have trodden in 
blessedness since my childhood ; and if I long for a moment to 
follow the voice which calls me to another land that I know 
not, I cannot but fear that my soul might hereafter yearn 
for that early blessedness which I had forsaken ; and where 
doubt enters there is not perfect love. I must wait for clearer 
guidance : I must go from you, and we must submit ourselves 
entirely to the Divine Will. We are sometimes required to 
lay our natural, lawful affections on the altar.” 

Adam dared not plead again, for Dinah’s was not the voice 
of caprice or insincerity. But it was very hard for him ; his 
eyes got dim as he looked at her. 

“ But you may come to feel satisfied ... to feel that you 
may come to me again, and we may never part, Dinah ? ” 

u We must submit ourselves, Adam. With time, our duty 
will be made clear. It may be when I have entered on my 
former life, I shall find all these new thoughts and wishes 
vanish, and become as things that were not. Then I shall 
know that my calling is not towards marriage. But we must 
wait.” 

“Dinah,” said Adam, mournfully, “you can’t love me so 
well as I love you, else you ’d have no doubts. But it ’s natu- 
ral you should n’t ; for I ’m not so good as you. I can’t 
doubt it ’s right for me to love the best thing God ’s ever 
given me to know.” 

“ Nay, Adam ; it seems to me that my love for you is not 
weak ; for my heart waits on your words and looks, almost as 
a little child waits on the help and tenderness of the strong 
on whom it depends. If the thought of you took slight hold 
of me, I should not fear that it would be an idol in the temple. 
But you will strengthen me — you will not hinder me in seek- 
ing to obey to the uttermost.” 

“ Let us go out into the sunshine, Dinah, and walk together. 
I ’ll speak no word to disturb you.” 

They went out and walked towards the fields, where they 


ADAM AND DINAH. 


529 


would meet the family coming from church. Adam said, 
“ Take my arm, Dinah,” and she took it. That was the only 
change in their manner to each other since they were last 
walking together. But no sadness in the prospect of her 
going away — in the uncertainty of the issue — could rob 
the sweetness from Adam’s sense that Dinah loved him. He 
thought he would stay at the Hall Farm all that evening. 
He would be near her as long as he could. 

“ Heyday ! there ’s Adam along wi’ Dinah,” said Mr. Poyser, 
as he opened the far gate into the Home Close. “I couldna 
think how he happened away from church. Why,” added 
good Martin, after a moment’s pause, “ what dost think has 
just jumped into my head ? ” 

“ Summat as hadna far to jump, for it ’s just under our nose. 
You mean as Adam ’s fond o’ Dinah.” 

“ Ay ! hast ever had any notion of it before ? ” 

“ To be sure I have,” said Mrs. Poyser, who always de- 
clined, if possible, to be taken by surprise. “ I ’m not one o’ 
those as can see the cat i’ the dairy, an’ wonder what she ’s 
come after.” 

“ Thee never saidst a word to me about it.” 

“ Well, I are n’t like a bird-clapper, forced to make a rattle 
when the wind blows on me. I can keep my own counsel 
when there ’s no good i’ speaking.” 

“ But Dinah ’ll ha’ none o’ him ; dost think she will ? ” 

“Nay,” said Mrs. Poyser, not sufficiently on her guard 
against a possible surprise ; “ she ’ll never marry anybody, if 
he is n’t a Methodist and a cripple.” 

“ It ’ud ha’ been a pretty thing though for ’em t’ marry,” 
said Martin, turning his head on one side, as if in pleased 
contemplation of his new idea. “ Thee ’dst ha’ liked it too, 
wouldstna ? ” 

“ Ah ! I should. I should ha’ been sure of her then, as she 
would n’t go away from me to Snowfield, welly thirty mile off, 
and me not got a c-reatur to look to, only neighbors, as are no 
kin to me, an’ most of ’em women as I ’d be ashamed to show 
my face, if my dairy things war like their ’n. There may 
well be streaky butter i’ the market. An’ I should be glad to 

▼OL. I. 


530 


ADAM BEDE. 


see the poor thing settled like a Christian woman, witn a 
house of her own over her head ; and we ’d stock her well wB 
linen and feathers ; for I love her next to my own children. 
An’ she makes one feel safer when she ’s i’ the house ; for 
she ’s like the driven snow : anybody might sin for two as 
had her at their elbow.” 

“ Dinah,” said Tommy, running forward to meet her, 
“ mother says you ’ll never marry anybody but a Methodist 
cripple. What a silly you must be ! ” a comment which 
Tommy followed up by seizing Dinah with both arms, and 
dancing along by her side with incommodious fondness. 

“Why, Adam, we missed you i’ the singing to-day,” said 
Mr. Poyser. “ How was it ? ” 

“ I wanted to see Dinah : she ’s going away so soon,” said 
Adam. 

“ Ah, lad ! can you persuade her to stop somehow ? Find 
her a good husband somewhere i’ the parish. If you ’ll do 
that, we ’ll forgive you for missing church. But, anyway, 
she isna going before the harvest-supper o’ Wednesday, and 
you must come then. There’s Bartle Massey cornin’, an’ 
happen Craig. You ’ll be sure an’ come, now, at seven ? The 
missis wunna have it a bit later.” 

“ Ay,” said Adam, “ I ’ll come if I can. But I can’t often say 
what I ’ll do beforehand, for the work often holds me longer 
than I expect. You ’ll stay till the end o’ the week, Dinah ? ” 

“Yes, yes !” said Mr. Poyser ; “ we ’ll have no nay.” 

“ She ’s no call to be in a hurry,” observed Mrs. Poyser. 
“ Scarceness o’ victual ’nil keep : there ’s no need to be hasty 
wi’ the cooking. An’ scarceness is what there ’s the biggest 
stock of i’ that country.” 

Dinah smiled, but gave no promise to^tay, and they talked 
of other things through the rest of the walk, lingering in the 
sunshine to look at the great flock of geese grazing, at the new 
corn-ricks, and at the surprising abundance of fruit on the old 
pear-tree ; Haney and Molly having already hastened home, 
side by side, each holding, carefully wrapped in her pocket- 
handkerchief, a prayer-book, in which she could read little 
beyond the large letters and the Amens. 


ADAM AND DINAH. 


581 


Surely all other leisure is hurry compared with a sunny walk 
through the fields from u afternoon church/’ — as such walks 
used to be in those old leisurely times, when the boat, gliding 
sleepily along the canal, was the newest locomotive wonder : 
when Sunday books had most of them old brown-leather covers, 
and opened with remarkable precision always in one place. 
Leisure is gone — gone where the spinning-wheels are gone, 
and the pack-horses, and the slow wagons, and the pedlers, 
who brought bargains to the door on sunny afternoons. Ingen- 
ious philosophers tell you, perhaps, that the great work of the 
steam-engine is to create leisure for mankind. Do not believe 
them : it only creates a vacuum for eager thought to rush in. 
Even idleness is eager now — eager for amusement : prone to 
excursion-trains, art-museums, periodical literature, and exciting 
novels : prone even to scientific theorizing, and cursory peeps 
through microscopes. Old Leisure was quite a different person- 
age : he only read one newspaper, innocent of leaders, and was 
free from that periodicity of sensations which we call post-time. 
He was a contemplative, rather stout gentleman, of excellent 
digestion, — of quiet perceptions, undiseased by hypothesis : 
happy in his inability to know the causes of things, preferring 
the things themselves. He lived chiefly in the country, among 
pleasant seats and homesteads, and was fond of sauntering by 
the fruit-tree wall, and scenting the apricots when they were 
warmed by the morning sunshine, or of sheltering himself un- 
der the orchard boughs at noon, when the summer pears were 
falling. He knew nothing of week-day services, and thought 
none the worse of the Sunday sermon if it allowed him to sleep 
from the text to the blessing — liking the afternoon service 
best, because the prayers were the shortest, and not ashamed 
to say so ; for he had an easy, jolly conscience, broad-backed 
like himself, and able to carry a great deal of beer or port- 
wine, — not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms and 
lofty aspirations. Life was not a task to him, but a sine- 
cure: he fingered the guineas in his pocket, and ate his 
dinners, and slept the sleep of the irresponsible ; for had he 
not kept up his character by going to church on the Sunday 
afternoons ? 


532 


ADAM BEDE. 


Pine old Leisure ! Do not be severe upon him, and judge 
him by our modern standard : he never went to Exeter Hall, 
or heard a popular preacher, or read “ Tracts for the Times ” 
or “ Sartor Resartus.” 


CHAPTER LIII. 

THE HARVEST SUPPER. 

As Adam was going homewards, on Wednesday evening, in 
the six o’clock sunlight, he saw in the distance the last load of 
barley winding its way towards the yard-gate of the Hall Farm, 
and heard the chant of “ Harvest Home ! ” rising and oinking 
like a wave. Fainter and fainter, and more musical through 
the growing distance, the falling dying sound still reached 
him, as he neared the Willow Brook. The low westering sun 
shone right on the shoulders of the old Binton Hills, turning 
the unconscious sheep into bright spots of light ; shone on the 
windows of the cottage too, and made them a-flame with a glory 
beyond that of amber or amethyst. It was enough to make 
Adam feel that he was in a great temple, and that the distant 
chant was a sacred song. 

“It’s wonderful,” he thought, “how that sound goes to 
one’s heart almost like a funeral bell, for all it tells one o’ the 
joyfullest time o’ the year, and the time when men are mostly 
the thankfullest. I suppose it ’s a bit hard to us to think any- 
thing ’s over and gone in our lives ; and there ’s a parting at 
the root of all our joys. It ’s like what I feel about Dinah : I 
should never ha’ come to know that her love ’ud be the great- 
est o’ blessings to me, if what I counted a blessing had n’t been 
wrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a greater 
need, so as I could crave and hunger for a greater and a better 
comfort.” 

He expected to see Dinah again this evening, and get leave 
to accompany her as far as Oakbourne ; and then he would 
ask her to fix some time when he might go to Snowfield, and 
learn whether the last best hope that' had been born to him 



Tablet to “ Dinah 1>ede” and IIer Husband at Wirksworth. 











































THE HARVEST SUPPER. 


533 


must be resigned like the rest. The work he had to do at 
home, besides putting on his best clothes, made it seven before 
he was on his way again to the Hall Farm, and it was ques- 
tionable whether, with his longest and quickest strides, he 
should be there in time even for the roast-beef, which came 
after the plum-pudding; for Mrs. Poyser’s supper would be 
punctual. 

Great was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin 
cans when Adam entered the house, but there was no hum of 
voices to this accompaniment: the eating of excellent roast- 
beef, provided free of expense, was too serious a business to 
those good farm-laborers to be performed with a divided atten- 
tion, even if they had had anything to say to each other, — - 
which they had not ; and Mr. Poyser, at the head of the table, 
was too busy with his carving to listen to Bartle Massey’s or 
Mr. Craig’s ready talk. 

“ Here, Adam,” said Mrs. Poyser, who was standing and 
looking on to see that Molly and Haney did their duty as 
waiters, “ here ’s a place kept for you between Mr. Massey 
and the boys. It ’s a poor tale you could n’t come to see the 
pudding when it was whole.” 

Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman’s figure , 
but Dinah was not there. He was almost afraid of asking 
about her ; besides, his attention was claimed by greetings, 
and there remained the hope that Dinah was in the house, 
though perhaps disinclined to festivities on the eve of her 
departure. 

It was a goodly sight — that table, with Martin Poyser’s 
round good-humored face and large person at the head of it, 
helping his servants to the fragrant roast-beef, and pleased 
when the empty plates came again. Martin, though usually 
blest with a good appetite, really forgot to finish his own 
beef to-night — it was so pleasant to him to look on in the 
intervals of carving, and see how the others enjoyed their 
supper ; for were they not men who, on all the days of the 
year except Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, 
in a make-shift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank their 
beer out of wooden bottles — with relish certainly, but with 


584 


ADAM BEDE. 


their mouths towards the zenith, after a fashion more endura- 
ble to ducks than to human bipeds. Martin Poyser had some 
faint conception of the flavor such men must find in hot roast- 
beef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side, 
and screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and 
watched half-witted Tom Tholer, otherwise known as “ Tom 
Saft,” receiving his second plateful of beef. A grin of delight 
broke over Tom’s face as the plate was set down before him, 
between his knife and fork, which he held erect, as if they 
had been sacred tapers ; but the delight was too strong to 
continue smouldering in a grin — it burst out the next instant 
in a long-drawn “ haw, haw ! ” followed by a sudden collapse 
into utter gravity, as the knife and fork darted down on the 
prey. Martin Poyser’s large person shook with his silent 
unctuous laugh : he turned towards Mrs. Poyser to see if she, 
too, had been observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband and 
wife met in a glance of good-natured amusement. 

“ Tom Saft ” was a great favorite on the farm, where he 
played the part of the old jester, and made up for his practi- 
cal deficiencies by his success in repartee. His hits, I im- 
agine, were those of the flail, which falls quite at random, 
but nevertheless smashes an insect now and then. They were 
much quoted at sheep-shearing and hay-making times ; but I 
refrain from recording them here, lest Tom’s wit should prove 
to be like that of many other by-gone jesters eminent in their 
day — rather of a temporary nature, not dealing with the 
deeper and more lasting relations of things. 

Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his ser 
vants and laborers, thinking with satisfaction that they were 
the best worth their pay of any set on the estate. There was 
Kester Bale, for example (Beale, probably, if the truth were 
known, but he was called Bale, and was not conscious of any 
claim to a fifth letter), — the old man with the close leather 
cap, and the network of wrinkles on his sun-browned face. Was 
there any man in Loamshire who knew better the “ natur ” of 
all farming work ? He was one of those invaluable laborers 
who can not only turn their hand to everything, but excel in 
everything they turn their hand to. It is true tester’s knees 


THE HARVEST SUPPER. 


585 


were much bent outward by this time, and he walked with a 
perpetual curtsy, as if he were among the most reverent of 
men. And so he was ; but I am obliged to admit that the 
object of his reverence was his own skill, towards which he 
performed some rather affecting acts of worship. He always 
thatched the ricks ; for if anything were his forte more than 
another, it was thatching ; and when the last touch had been 
put to the last beehive rick, Kester, whose home lay at some 
distance from the farm, would take a walk to the rickyard in 
his best clothes on a Sunday morning, and stand in the lane, 
at a due distance, to contemplate his own thatching, — walk- 
ing about to get each rick from the proper point of view. As 
he curtsied along, with his eyes upturned to the straw knobs 
imitative of golden globes at the summits of the beehive 
ricks, which indeed were gold of the best sort, you might have 
imagined him to be engaged in some pagan act of adoration. 
Kester was an old bachelor, and reputed to have stockings full 
of coin, concerning which his master cracked a joke with him 
every pay-night : not a new, unseasoned joke, but a good old 
one, that had been tried many times before, and had worn 
well. “ Th’ young measter ’s a merry mon,” Kester frequently 
remarked ; for having begun his career by frightening away 
the crows under the last Martin Poyser but one, be could 
never cease to account the reigning Martin a young master. 
I am not ashamed of commemorating old Kester : you and I 
are indebted to the hard hands of such men — hands that 
have long ago mingled with the soil they tilled so faithfully, 
thriftily making the best they could of the earth’s fruits, and 
receiving the smallest share as their own wages. 

Then, at the end of the table, opposite his master, there 
was Alick, the shepherd and head man, with the ruddy face 
and broad shoulders, not on the best terms with old Kester ; 
indeed, their intercourse was confined to an occasional snarl, 
for though they probably differed little concerning hedging 
and ditching and the treatment of ewes, there was a profound 
difference of opinion between them as to their own respective 
merits. When Tityrus and Melibceus happen to be on the 
same farm, they are not sentimentally polite to each other. 


536 


ADAM BEDE. 


Alick, indeed, was not by any means a honeyed man : his 
speech had usually something of a snarl in it, and his broad- 
shouldered aspect something of the bull-dog expression — 
“ Don’t you meddle with me, and I won’t meddle with you ; ” 
but he was honest even to the splitting of an oat-grain rather 
than he would take beyond his acknowledged share, and as 
“ close-fisted ” with his master’s property as if it had been his 
own, — throwing very small handfuls of damaged barley to 
the chickens, because a large handful affected his imagination 
painfully with a sense of profusion. Good-tempered Tim, the 
wagoner, who loved his horses, had his grudge against Alick 
in the matter of corn : they rarely spoke to each other, and 
never looked at each other, even over their dish of cold pota- 
toes ; but then, as this was their usual mode of behavior 
towards all mankind, it would be an unsafe conclusion that 
they had more than transient fits of unfriendliness. The 
bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive, was not of that 
entirely genial, merry, broad-grinning sort, apparently ob- 
served in most districts visited by artists. The mild radiance 
of a smile was a rare sight on a field-laborer’s face, and there 
was seldom any gradation between bovine gravity and a laugh. 
Nor was every laborer so honest as our friend Alick. At this 
very table, among Mr. Poyser’s men, there is that big Ben 
Tholoway, a very powerful thresher, but detected more than 
once in carrying away his master’s corn in his pockets : an 
action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could hardly be 
ascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had for- 
given him, and continued to employ him ; for the Tholoways 
had lived on the Common, time out of mind, and had always 
worked for the Poysers. And on the whole, I dare say, 
society was not much the worse because Ben had not six 
months of it at the treadmill ; for his views of depredation 
were narrow, and the House of Correction might have en- 
larged them. As it was, Ben ate his roast-beef to-night with 
a serene sense of having stolen nothing more than a few peas 
and beans as seed for his garden, since the last harvest-supper, 
and felt warranted in thinking that Alick’s suspicious eye. 
forever upon him, was an injury to his innocence. 


THE HARVEST SUPPER. 


537 


But now the roast-beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, 
leaving a fair large deal table for the bright drinking-cans, and 
the foaming brown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, 
pleasant to behold. Now, the great ceremony of the evening 
was to begin — the harvest-song, in which every man must 
join : he might be in tune, if he liked to be singular, but he 
must not sit with closed lips. The movement was obliged to 
be in triple time ; the rest was ad libitum . 

As to the origin of this song — whether it came in its actual 
state from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually 
perfected by a school or succession of rhapsodists, I am igno 
rant. There is a stamp of unity, of individual genius upon it, 
which inclines me to the former hypothesis, though I am not 
blind to the consideration that this unity may rather have 
arisen from that consensus of many minds which was a condi- 
tion of primitive thought, foreign to our modern consciousness. 
Some will perhaps think that they detect in the first quatrain 
an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing in 
imaginative vigor, have supplied by the feeble devise of itera- 
tion : others, however, may rather maintain that this very 
iteration is an original felicity, to which none but the most 
prosaic minds can be insensible. 

The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking cere- 
mony. (That is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, 
we cannot reform our forefathers.) During the first and sec- 
«»id quatrain, sung decidedly forte , no can was filled. 

“ Here ’s a health unto our master, 

The founder of the feast ; 

Here ’s a health unto our master 
And to our mistress ! 

“ And may his doings prosper, 

Whate’er he takes in hand, 

For we are all his servants, 

And are at his command.” 

But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung 
fortissimo , with emphatic raps on the table, which gave the ef- 
fect of cymbals and drum together, Alick’s can was filled, and 
lie was bound to empty it before the chorus ceased. 


538 


ADAM BEDE. 


'* Then drink, boys, drink ! 

And see ye do not spill, 

For if ye do, ye shall drink two. 

For ’t is our master’s will.” 

When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady^ 
handed manliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right 
hand, — and so on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint 
under the stimulus of the chorus. Tom Saft — the rogue — 
took care to spill a little by accident ; but Mrs. Poyser (too 
officiously, Tom thought) interfered to prevent the exaction of 
the penalty. 

To any listener outside the door it would have been the 
reverse of obvious why the “ Drink, boys, drink ! ” should have 
such an immediate and often-repeated encore ; but once entered, 
he would have seen that all faces were at present sober, and . 
most of them serious : it was the regular and respectable thing 
for those excellent farm-laborers to do, as much as for elegant 
ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their wine-glasses. 
Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had gone out 
to see what sort of evening it was, at an early stage in the 
ceremony ; and had not finished his contemplation until a si- 
lence of five minutes declared that “ Drink, boys, drink ! ” was 
not likely to begin again for the next twelvemonth. Much to 
the regret of the boys and Totty : on them the stillness fell 
rather flat, after that glorious thumping of the table, towards 
which Totty, seated on her father’s knee, contributed with her 
small might and small fist. 

When Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a 
general desire for solo music after the choral. Nancy declared 
that Tim the wagoner knew a song and was “ allays singing 
like a lark i’ the stable ; ” whereupon Mr. Poyser said encour- 
agingly, “ Come, Tim, lad, let ’s hear it.” Tim looked sheep- 
ish, tucked down his head, and said he could n’t sing ; but this 
encouraging invitation of the master’s was echoed all round 
the table. It was a conversational opportunity : everybody 
could ghy, “ Come, Tim,” — except Alick, who never relaxed 
into the frivolity of unnecessary speech. At last, Tim’s next 
neighbor, Ben Tholoway, began to give emphasis to his speech 


THE HARVEST SUPPER. 


539 


by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather savage, said, “Let 
me alooan, will ye ? else I ’ll ma’ ye sing a toon ye wonna like.” 
A good-tempered wagoner’s patience has limits, and Tim was 
not to be urged further. 

“Well, then, David, ye ’re the lad to sing,” said Ben, willing 
to show that he was not discomfited by this check. “ Sing 
* My loove ’s a roos wi’out a thorn.’ ” 

The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious 
abstracted expression, which was due probably to a squint of 
superior intensity rather than to any mental characteristic,* 
for he was not indifferent to Ben’s invitation, but blushed and 
laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his mouth in a way that 
was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for some time 
the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire 
to hear David’s song. But in vain. The lyrism of the even- 
ing was in the cellar at present, and was not to be drawn from 
that retreat just yet. 

Meanwhile the conversation at the head of the table had 
taken a political turn. Mr. Craig was not above talking politics 
occasionally, though he piqued himself rather on a wise insight 
than on specific information. He saw so far beyond the 
mere facts of a case, that really it was superfluous to know 
them. 

“I’m no reader o’ the paper myself,” he observed to-night, 
as he filled his pipe, “though I might read it fast enough if I 
liked, for there ’s Miss Lyddy has ’em, and ’s done with ’em in 
no time ; but there ’s Mills, now, sits i’ the chimney-corner and 
reads the paper pretty nigh from morning to night, and when 
he ’s got to th’ end on ’t he ’s more addleheaded than he was 
at the beginning. He ’s full o’ this peace now, as they talk on; 
he ’s been reading and reading, and thinks he ’s got to the bot- 
i tom on ’t. 1 Why, Lor’ bless you, Mills,’ says I, ‘ you see no 

more into this thing nor you can see into the middle of a po- 
tato. I ’ll tell you what it is : you think it ’ll be a fine thing 
for the country ; and I ’m not again’ it — mark my words — 
t ’m not again’ it. But it ’s my opinion as there ’s them at 
the head o’ this country as are worse enemies to us nor Bony 
and all the mounseers he ’s got at ’s back ; for as for the moun- 


540 


ADAM BEDE. 


seers, you may skewer half-a-dozen of ’em at once as if they 
war frogs.’ ” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Martin Poyser, listening with an air of much 
intelligence and edification, “they ne’er ate a bit o’ beef i’ 
their lives. Mostly sallet, I reckon.” 

“ And says I to Mills,” continued Mr. Craig, “ ‘ Will you 
try to make me believe as furriners like them can do us half 
th’ harm them ministers do with their bad government ? If 
King George ’ud turn ’em all away and govern by himself, he ’d 
see everything righted. He might take on Billy Pitt again if 
he liked; but I don’t see myself what we want wi’ anybody 
besides King and Parliament. It ’s that nest o’ ministers does 
the mischief, I tell you.’ ” 

“ Ah, it ’s fine talking,” observed Mrs. Poyser, who was now 
seated near her husband, with Totty on her lap — “ it ’s fine 
talking. It’s hard work to tell which is Old Harry when 
everybody’s got boots on.” 

“ As for this peace,” said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on 
one side in a dubitative manner, and giving a precautionary 
puff to his pipe between each sentence, “ I don’t know. Th’ 
war ’s a fine thing for the country, an’ how ’ll you keep up 
prices wi’out it ? An’ them French are a wicked sort o’ folks, 
by what I can make out; what can you do better nor fight 
’em ? ” 

“Ye’re partly right there, Poyser,” said Mr. Craig, “but 
I ’m not again’ the peace — to make a holiday for a bit. We 
can break it when we like, an’ I’m in no fear o’ Bony, for all 
they talk so much o’ his cliverness. That ’s what I says to 
Mills this morning. Lor’ bless you, he sees no more through 
Bony ! . . . why, I put him up to more in three minutes than 
he gets from’s paper all the year round. Says I, ‘Am I a 
gardener as knows his business, or arn’t I, Mills ? answer me 
that.’ ‘ To be sure y’ are, Craig,’ says he — he ’s not a bad 
fellow, Mills is n’t, for a butler, but weak i’ the head. ‘Well,’ 
says I, ‘ you talk o’ Bony’s cliverness ; would it be any use my 
being a first-rate gardener if I ’d got nought but a quagmire to 
work on?’ ‘No,’ says he. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘that’s just what 
it is wi’ Bony. I ’ll not deny but he may be a bit diver — * 


THE HARVEST SUPPER. 541 

he ’s no Frenchman born, as I understand ; but what ’s he got 
at ’s back but mounseers ? ’ ” 

Mr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after 
this triumphant specimen of Socratic argument, and then 
added, thumping the table rather fiercely — 

“ Why, it ’s a sure thing — and there ’s them ’ull bear wit- 
ness to’t — as i’ one regiment where there was one man 
a-missing, they put the regimentals on a big monkey, and 
they fit him as the shell fits the walnut, and you could n’t tell 
the monkey from the mounseers ! ” 

“ Ah ! think o’ that, now ! ” said Mr. Poyser, impressed at 
once with the political bearings of the fact, and with its strik- 
ing interest as an anecdote in natural history. 

“ Come, Craig,” said Adam, “ that ’s a little too strong. You 
don’t believe that. It ’s all nonsense about the French being 
such poor sticks. Mr. Irwine ’s seen ’em in their own country, 
and he says they ’ve plenty o’ fine fellows among ’em. And 
as for knowledge, and contrivances, and manufactures, there ’s 
a many things as we ’re a fine sight behind ’em in. It ’s poor 
. foolishness to run down your enemies. Why, Nelson and the 
rest of ’em ’ud have no merit i’ beating ’em, if they were such 
offal as folks pretend.” 

Mr. Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by this 
opposition of authorities. Mr. Irwine’s testimony was not to 
be disputed ; but, on the other hand, Craig was a knowing fel- 
low, and his view was less startling. Martin had never “ heard 
tell ” of the French being good for much. Mr. Craig had 
found no answer but such as was implied in taking a long 
draught of ale, and then looking down fixedly at the propor- 
tions of his own leg, which he turned a little outward for that 
purpose, when Bartle Massey returned from the fireplace, 
where he had been smoking his first pipe in quiet, and broke 
the silence by saying, as he thrust his forefinger into the 
canister — 

“Why, Adam, how happened you not to be at church on 
Sunday ? answer me that, you rascal. The anthem went 
limping without you. Are you going to disgrace your school- 
master in his old age ? ” 


642 


ADAM BEDE. 


“No, Mr. Massey/ 5 said Adam. “Mr. and Mrs. Poyser can 
tell you where I was. I was in no bad company. 55 

“ She 5 s gone, Adam — gone to Snowfield, 55 said Mr. Poyser, 
/eminded of Dinah for the first time this evening. “ I thought 
yon 5 d ha 5 persuaded her better. Nought 5 ud hold her, but she 
must go yesterday forenoon. The missis has hardly got over 
it. I thought she 5 d ha 5 no sperrit for th 5 harvest supper. 55 

Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam 
had come in, but she had had “ no heart 55 to mention the bad^ 
news. 

“What !” said Bartle, with an air of disgust. “Was there 
a woman concerned ? Then I give you up, Adam. 55 

“But it 5 s a woman you 5 n spoke well on, Bartle, 55 said Mr. 
Poyser. “Come, now, you canna draw back; you said once 
as women wouldna ha 5 been a bad invention if they 5 d all been 
like Dinah. 55 

“ I meant her voice, man — I meant her voice, that was all/ 5 
said Bartle. “ I can bear to hear her speak without wanting 
to put wool in my ears. As for other things, I daresay she 5 s 
like the rest o’ the women — thinks two and two 5 11 come to 
make five, if she cries and bothers enough about it. 55 

“ Ay, ay ! 55 said Mrs. Poyser ; “ one 5 ud think, an 5 hear some 
folks talk, as- the men war 5 cute enough to count the corns in a 
bag o 5 wheat wi 5 only smelling at it. They can see through a 
barn-door, they can. Perhaps that 5 s the reason they can see 
so little o 5 this side on 5 t. 55 

Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter, and winked 
at Adam, as much as to say the schoolmaster was in for it 
now. 

“ Ah ! 55 said Bartle, sneeringly, “ the women are quick 
enough — they 5 re quick enough. They know the rights of a 
story before they hear it, and can tell a man what his thoughts 
are before he knows ’em himself. 55 

“ Like enough/ 5 said Mrs. Poyser ; “ for the men are mostly 
so slow, their thoughts overrun ’em, an 5 they can only catck 
’em by the tail. I can count a stocking-top while a man 5 s get- 
ting 5 s tongue ready ; an 5 when he outs wi 5 his speech at last, 
there 5 s little broth to be made on 5 t. It 5 s your dead chicks 


THE HARVEST SUPPER. 


543 


take the longest hatchin’. Howiver, I’m not denyin’ the 
women are foolish: God Almighty made ’em to match the 
men.” 

“ Match ! ” said Bartle ; “ ay, as vinegar matches one’s teeth. 
If a man says a word, his wife ’ll match it with a contradic- 
tion ; if he ’s a mind for hot meat, his wife ’ll match it with 
cold bacon ; if he laughs, she ’ll match him with whimpering. 
She ’s such a match as the horse-fly is to th’ horse : she ’s got 
the right venom to sting him with — the right venom to sting 
him with.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, “I know what the men like — a 
poor soft, as ’ud simper at ’em like the pictur o’ the sun, 
whether they did right or wrong, an’ say thank you for a kick, 
an’ pretend she didna know which end she stood uppermost, 
till her husband told her. That ’s what a man wants in a wife, 
mostly ; he wants to make sure o’ one fool as ’ull tell him he ’s 
wise. But there ’s some men can do wi’out that — they think 
so much o’ themselves a’ready ; an’ that ’s how it is there ’s 
old bachelors.” 

“Come, Craig,” said Mr. Poyser, jocosely, “you mun get 
married pretty quick, else you ’ll be set down for an old 
bachelor ; an’ you see what the women ’ull think on you.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser, 
and setting a high value on his own compliments, “ I like 
a cleverish woman — a woman o’ sperrit — a managing 
woman.” 

“You ’re out there, Craig,” said Bartle, dryly ; “you ’re out 
there. You judge o’ your garden-stuff on a better plan than 
that : you pick the things for what they can excel in — for 
what they can excel in. You don’t value your peas for their 
roots, or your carrots for their flowers. Now, that ’s the way 
you should choose women : their cleverness ’ll never come to 
much — never come to much ; but they make excellent simple- 
tons, ripe and strong-flavored.” 

“ What dost say to that ? ” said Mr. Poyser, throwing him* 
self back and looking merrily at his wife. 

“ Say ! ” answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling 
in her eye ; “ why, I say as some folks’ tongues are like the 


544 


ADAM BEDE. 


clocks as run on strikin’, not to tell you the time o’ the day, 
but because there ’s summat wrong i’ their own inside — ” 

Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to 
a further climax, if every one’s attention had not at this mo- 
ment been called to the other end of the table, where the 
lyrism, which had at first only manifested itself by David’s 1 
sotto voce performance of “ My love ’s a rose without a thorn,” 
had gradually assumed a rather deafening and complex char- 
acter. Tim, thinking slightly of David’s vocalization, was 
impelled to supersede that feeble buzz by a spirited commence' 
ment of “ Three Merry Mowers,” but David was not to be put 
down so easily, and showed himself capable of a copious cres- 
cendo, which was rendering it doubtful whether the rose would 
not predominate over the mowers, when old Kester, with an 
entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, suddenly set up a 
quavering treble, — as if he had been an alarum, and the time 
was come for him to go off. 

The company at Alick’s end of the table took this form of 
vocal entertainment very much as a matter of course, being 
free from musical prejudices ; but Bartle Massey laid down 
his pipe and put his fingers in his ears ; and Adam, who had 
been longing to go, ever since he had heard Dinah was not in 
the house, rose and said he must bid good-night. 

“ I ’ll go with you, lad,” said Bartle ; “ I ’ll go with you 
before my ears are split.” 

“ I ’ll go round by the Common, and see you home, if you 
like, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. 

“ Ay, ay ! ” said Bartle ; “ then we can have a bit o’ talk 
together. I never get hold of you now.” 

“Eh ! it ’s a pity but you’d sit it out,” said Martin Poyser. 
“ They ’ll all go soon ; for th’ missis niver lets ’em stay past 
ten.” 

But Adam was resolute, so the good-nights were said, and 
the two friends turned out on their starlight walk together. 

“ There ’s that poor fool, Vixen, whimpering for me at 
home,” said Bartle. “ I can never bring her here with me for 
fear she should be struck with Mrs. Poyser’s eye, and the poor 
bitch might go limping forever after.” 


545 


THE MEETING ON THE HILL. 

“I’ve never any need to drive Gyp back,” said Adam, laugh- 
ing. “ He always turns back of his own head when he finds 
out I ’m coming here.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Bartle. “ A terrible woman ! — made of 
needles— made of needles. But I stick to Martin — I shall 
always stick to Martin. And ho likes the needles, God help 
him ! He ’s a cushion made on purpose for ’em.” 

“ But she ’s a downright good-natur’d woman, for all that,” 
said Adam, “ and as true as the daylight. She ’s a bit cross 
wi’ the dogs when they offer to come in th’ house, but if they 
depended on her, she ’d take care and have ’em well fed. If 
her tongue ’s keen, her heart ’s tender : I ’ve seen that in times 
o’ trouble. She ’s one o’ those women as are better than their 
word.” 

“ Well, well,” said Bartle, “ I don’t say th’ apple is n’t sound 
at the core ; but it sets my teeth on edge — it sets my teeth 
on edge.” 


CHAPTER LIV. 

THE MEETING ON THE HILL. 

Adam understood Dinah’s haste to go away, and drew hope 
rather than discouragement from it. She was fearful lest the 
strength of her feeling towards him should hinder her from 
waiting and listening faithfully for the ultimate guiding voice 
from within. 

“ I wish I ’d asked her to write to me, though,” he thought. 
*‘And yet even that might disturb her a bit, perhaps. She 
wants to be quite quiet in her old way for a while. And I ’ve 
no right to be impatient and interrupting her with my wishes. 
She ’s told me what her mind is; and she ’s not a woman to say 
one thing and mean another. I ’ll wait patiently.” 

That was Adam’s wise resolution, and it throve excellently 
for the first two or three weeks on the nourishment it got from 
the remembrance of Dinah’s confession that Sunday afternoon. 
There is a wonderful amount of sustenance in the first few 


546 


ADAM BEDE. 


words of love. But towards the middle of October the reso 
lution began to dwindle perceptibly, and showed dangerous 
symptoms of exhaustion. The weeks were unusually long: 
Dinah must surely have had more than enough time to make 
up her mind. Let a woman say what she will after she has 
once told a man that she loves him, he is a little too flushed 
and exalted with that first draught she offers him to care much 
about the taste of the second : he treads the earth with a very 
elastic step as he walks away from her, and makes light of all 
difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out : memory gets 
sadly diluted with time, and is not strong enough to revive us. 
Adam was no longer so confident as he had been : he began to 
fear that perhaps Dinah’s old life would have too strong a 
grasp upon her for any new feeling to triumph. If she had 
not felt this, she would surely have written to him to give 
him some comfort ; but it appeared that she held it right to 
discourage him. As Adam’s confidence waned, his patience 
waned with it, and he thought he must write himself; he 
must ask Dinah not to leave him in painful doubt longer than 
was needful. He sat up late one night to write her a letter, 
but the next morning he burnt it, afraid of its effect. It would 
be worse to have a discouraging answer by letter than from 
her own lips, for her presence reconciled him to her will. 

You perceive how it was : Adam was hungering for the 
sight of Dinah ; and when that sort of hunger reaches a cer- 
tain stage, a lover is likely to still it though he may have to 
put his future in pawn. 

But what harm could he do by going to Snowfield ? Dinah 
could not be displeased with him for it : she had not forbidden 
him to go : she must surely expect that he would go before 
long. By the second Sunday in October this view of the case 
had become so clear to Adam, that he was already on his way 
to Snowfield ; on horseback this time, for his hours were pre- 
cious now, and he had borrowed Jonathan Burge’s good nag 
for the journey. 

What keen memories went along the road with him ! He 
had often been to Oakbourne and back since that first journey 
to Snowfield, but beyond Qakboumethe gray stone walls, the 


THE MEETING ON THE HILL. 


547 


broken country, the meagre trees, seemed to be telling him 
afresh the story of that painful past which he knew so well by 
heart. But no story is the same to us after a lapse of time ; 
or rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpreters : 
and Adam this morning brought with him new thoughts through 
that gray country — thoughts which gave an altered signifi- 
cance to its story of the past. 

That is a base and selfish, even a blasphemous, spirit, which 
rejoices and is thankful over the past evil that has blighted or 
crushed another, because it has been made a source of unfore- 
seen good to ourselves: Adam could never cease to mourn 
over that mystery of human sorrow which had been brought 
so close to him : he could never thank God for another’s 
misery. And if I were capable of that narrow-sighted joy in 
Adam’s behalf, I should still know he was not the man to feel 
it for himself : he would have shaken his head at such a senti- 
ment, and said, “ Evil ’s evil, and sorrow ’s sorrow, and you 
can’t alter it ’s natur by wrapping it up in other words. Other 
folks were not created for my sake, that I should think all 
square when things turn out well for me.” 

But it is not ignoble to feel that the fuller life which a sad 
experience has brought us is worth our own personal share of 
pain: surely it is not possible to feel otherwise, any more 
than it would be possible for a man with cataract to regret the 
painful process by which his dim blurred sight of men as trees 
walking had been exchanged for clear outline and effulgent day. 
The growth of higher feeling within us is like the growth of 
faculty, bringing with it a sense of added strength : we can no 
more wish to return to a narrower sympathy, than a painter 
or a musician can wish to return to his cruder manner, or a 
philosopher to his less complete formula. 

Something like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam’s 
mind this Sunday morning, as he rode along in vivid recollec- 
tion of the past. His feeling towards Dinah, the hope of 
passing his life with her, had been the distant unseen point 
towards which that hard journey from Snowfield eighteen 
months ago had been leading him. Tender and deep as his 
love for Hetty had been — so deeB that the roots of it would 


548 


ADAM BEDE. 


never be torn away — his love for Dinah was better and more 
precious to him j for it was the outgrowth of that fuller life 
which had come to him from his acquaintance with deep sor- 
row. “ It ’s like as if it was a new strength to me,” he said to 
himself, u to love her, and know as she loves me. I shall look 
t’ her to help me to see things right. For she ’s better than I 
am — there ’s less o’ self in her, and pride. And it ’s a feeling 
as gives you a sort o’ liberty,, as if you could walk more fear 
less, when you ’ve more trust in another than y’ have in youi 
self. I ’ve always been thinking I knew better than them as 
belonged to me, and that ’s a poor sort o’ life, when you can’t 
look to them nearest to you t’ help you with a bit better thought 
than what you ’ve got inside you a’ready.” 

It was more than two o’clock in the afternoon when Adam 
came in sight of the gray town on the hill-side, and looked 
searchingly towards the green valley below, for the first glimpse 
of the old thatched roof near the ugly red mill. The scene 
looked less harsh in the soft October sunshine than it had done 
in the eager time of early spring ; and the one grand charm it 
possessed in common with all wide-stretcliing woodless regions 
— • that it filled you with a new consciousness of the overarch- 
ing sky — had a milder, more soothing influence than usual, 
on this almost cloudless day. Adam’s doubts and fears melted 
under this influence as the delicate web-like clouds had grad- 
ually melted away into the clear blue above him. He seemed 
to see Dinah’s gentle face assuring him, with its looks alone, 
of all he longed to know. 

He did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he 
got down from his horse and tied it at the little gate, that he 
might ask where she was gone to-day. He had set his mind 
on following her and bringing her home. She was gone to 
Sloman’s End, a hamlet about three miles off, over the hill, 
the old woman told him : had set off directly after morning 
chapel, to preach in ? cottage there, as her habit was. Any- 
body at the town would tell him the way to Sloman’s End. 
So Adam got on his horse again and rode to the town, putting 
up at the old inn, and taking a hasty dinner there in the com- 
pany of the too chatty landlord, from whose friendly questions 


THE MEETING ON THE HILL. 


549 


and reminiscences he was glad to escape as soon as possible, 
and set out towards Sloman’s End. With all his haste it was 
nearly four o’clock before he could set off, and he thought 
that as Dinah had gone so early, she would perhaps already 
be near returning. The little, gray, desolate-looking hamlet, 
unscreened by sheltering trees, lay in sight long before he 
reached it; and as he came near he could hear the sound 
of voices singing a hymn. “ Perhaps that ’s the last hymn 
before they come away,” Adam thought : “ I ’ll walk back a 
bit, and turn again to meet her, further off the village.” He 
walked back till he got nearly to the top of the hill again, and 
seated himself on a loose stone, against the low wall, to watch 
till he should see the little black figure leaving the hamlet and 
winding up the hill. He chose this spot, almost at the top of 
the hill, because it was away from all eyes — no house, no 
cattle, not even a nibbling sheep near — no presence but the 
still lights and shadows, and the great embracing sky. 

She was much longer coming than he expected : he waited 
an hour at least watching for her and thinking of her, while 
the afternoon shadows lengthened, and the light grew softer. 
At last he saw the little black figure coming from between 
the gray houses, and gradually approaching the foot of the 
hill. Slowly, Adam thought ; but Dinah was really walking 
at her usual pace, with a light quiet step. Now she was 
beginning to wind along the path up the hill, but Adam would 
.not move yet : he would not meet her too soon ; he had set his 
heart on meeting her in this assured loneliness. And now 
he began to fear lest he should startle her too much; “Yet,” 
he thought, “she’s not one to be overstartled; she’s always so 
calm and quiet, as if she was prepared for anything.” 

What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill ? Perhaps 
she had found complete repose without him, and had ceased to 
feel any need of his love. On the verge of a decision we all 
tremble : hope pauses with fluttering wings. 

But now at last she was very near, and Adam rose from the 
stone wall. It happened that just as he walked forward, Dinah 
had paused and turned round to look back at the village : who 
does not pause and look back in mounting a hill ? Adam was 


550 


ADAM BEDE. 


glad; for, with the fine instinct of a lover, he felt that it 
would be best for her to hear his voice before she saw him. 
He came within three paces of her and then said, “ Dinah ! ” 
She started without looking round, as if she connected the 
sound with no place. “ Dinah! ” Adam said again. He knew 
quite well what was in her mind. She was so accustomed to 
think of impressions as purely spiritual monitions, that she 
looked for no material visible accompaniment of the voice. 

But this second time she looked round. What a look of 
yearning love it was that the mild gray eyes turned on the 
strong dark-eyed man ! She did not start again at the sight 
of him ; she said nothing, but moved towards him so that his 
arm could clasp her round. 

And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. 
Adam was content, and said nothing. It was Dinah who 
spoke first. 

“ Adam,” she said, “ it is the Divine Will. My soul is so 
knit to yours that it is but a divided life I live without you. 
And this moment, now you are with me, and I feel that our 
hearts are filled with the same love, I have a fulness of 
strength to bear and do our heavenly Father’s Will, that I 
had lost before.” 

Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes. 

“ Then we ’ll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts 
us.” 

And they kissed each other with a deep joy. 

What greater thing is there for two human souls, than to 
feel that they are joined for life — to strengthen each other in 
all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to 
each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent un- 
speakable memories at the moment of the last parting ? 


MARRIAGE BELLS. 


651 


CHAPTER LV. 

MARRIAGE BELLS. 

In little more than a month after that meeting on the hill — > 
on a rimy morning in departing November — Adam and Dinah 
were married. 

It was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. 
Burge’s men had a holiday, and all Mr. Poyser’s ; and most of 
those who had a holiday appeared in their best clothes at the 
wedding. I think there was hardly an inhabitant of Hay slope 
specially mentioned in this history and still resident in the 
parish on this November morning, who was not either in 
church to see Adam and Dinah married, or near the church 
door to greet them as they came forth. Mrs. Irwine and her 
daughters were waiting at the churchyard gates in their car- 
riage (for they had a carriage now) to shake hands with the 
bride and bridegroom, and wish them well ; and in the absence 
of Miss Lydia Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills, and 
Mr. Craig had felt it incumbent on them to represent “the 
family 99 at the Chase on the occasion. The churchyard walk 
was quite lined with familiar faces, many of them faces that 
had first looked at Dinah when she preached on the Green ; 
and no wonder they showed this eager interest on her mar- 
riage morning, for nothing like Dinah and the history which 
had brought her and Adam Bede together had been known at 
Hayslope within the memory of man. 

Bessy Cranage, in her neatest cap and frock, was crying, 
though she did not exactly know why ; for, as her cousin Wiry 
Ben, who stood near her, judiciously suggested, Dinah was not 
going away, and if Bessy was in low spirits, the best thing for 
her to do was to follow Dinah’s example, and marry an honest 
fellow who was ready to have her. Next to Bessy, just within 
the church door, there were the Poyser children, peeping round 
the corner of the pews to get a sight of the mysterious cere- 
mony ; Totty’s face wearing an unusual air of anxiety at the 


552 


ADAM BEDE. 


idea of seeing cousin Dinah, come back looking rather old, for 
in Totty’s experience no married people were young. 

I envy them all the sight they had when the marriage was 
fairly ended and Adam led Dinah out of church. She was not 
in black this morning ; for her aunt Poyser would by no means 
allow such a risk of incurring bad luck, and had herself made 
a present of the wedding dress, made all of gray, though in 
the usual Quaker form, for on this point Dinah could not give 
way. So the lily face looked out with sweet gravity from 
under a gray Quaker bonnet, neither smiling nor blushing, but 
with lips trembling a little under the weight of solemn feel- 
ings. Adam, as he pressed her arm to his side, walked with 
his old erectness and his head thrown rather backward as if to 
face all the world better ; but it was not because he was par- 
ticularly proud this morning, as is the wont of bridegrooms, 
for his happiness was of a kind that had little reference to 
men’s opinion of it. There was a tinge of sadness in his deep 
joy ; Dinah knew it, and did not feel aggrieved. 

There were three other couples, following the bride and 
bridegroom: first, Martin Poyser, looking as cheery as a 
bright fire on this rimy morning, led quiet Mary Burge, the 
bridesmaid ; then came Seth serenely happy, with Mrs. Poy- 
ser on his arm ; and last of all Bartle Massey, with Lisbeth — 
Lisbeth in a new gown and bonnet, too busy with her pride in 
her son, and her delight in possessing the one daughter she 
had desired, to devise a single pretext for complaint. 

Bartle Massey had consented to attend the wedding at 
Adam’s earnest request, under protest against marriage in 
general, and the marriage of a sensible man in particular. 
Nevertheless, Mr. Poyser had a joke against him after the 
wedding dinner, to the effect that in the vestry he had given 
the bride one more kiss than was necessary. 

Behind this last couple came Mr. Irwine, glad at heart over 
this good morning’s work of joining Adam and Dinah. For 
he had seen Adam in the worst moments of his sorrow ; and 
what better harvest from that painful seed-time could there be 
than this ? The love that had brought hope and comfort in 
the hour of despair, the love that had found its way to the 


EPILOGUE. 


553 


dark prison cell and to poor Hetty’s darker soul — this strong, 
gentle love was to be Adam’s companion and helper till death. 

There was much shaking of hands mingled with “ God bless 
you’s,” and other good wishes to the four couples, at the church- 
yard gate, Mr. Poyser answering for the rest with unwonted 
vivacity of tongue, for he had all the appropriate wedding-day 
jokes at his command. And the women, he observed, could 
never do anything but put finger in eye at a wedding. Even 
Mrs. Poyser could not trust herself to speak as the neighbors 
shook hands with her ; and Lisbeth began to cry in the face 
of the very first person who told her she was getting young 
again. 

Mr. Joshua Rann, having a slight touch of rheumatism, did 
not join in the ringing of the bells this morning, and, looking 
on with some contempt at these informal greetings which re- 
quired no official co-operation from the clerk, began to hum in 
his musical bass, “ Oh what a joyful thing it is,” by way of 
preluding a little to the effect he intended to produce in the 
wedding psalm next Sunday. 

“ That ’s a bit of good news to cheer Arthur,” said Mr. Irwine 
to his mother, as they drove off. “I shall write to him the first 
thing when we get home.” 


EPILOGUE. 


It is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have 
been shut up half an hour or more in Adam Bede’s timber-yard, 
which used to be Jonathan Burge’s, and the mellow evening 
light is falling on the pleasant house with the buff walls and 
the soft gray thatch, very much as it did when we saw Adam 
bringing in the keys on that June evening nine years ago. 

There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, 
and shading her eyes with her hands as she looks for some- 
thing in the distance ; foi the rays that fall on her white bor- 


554 


ADAM BEDE. 


derless cap and her pale auburn hair are very dazzling. But 
now she turns away from the sunlight and looks towards the 
door. 

We can see the sweet pale face quite well now : it is scarcely 
at all altered — only a little fuller, to correspond to her more 
matronly figure, which still seems light and active enough in 
the plain black dress. 

“ I see him, Seth,” Dinah said, as she looked into the house. 
"‘Let us go and meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with mother.” 

The last call was answered immediately by a small fair 
creature with pale auburn hair and gray eyes, little more than 
four years old, who ran out silently and put her hand into her 
mother’s. 

“Come, uncle Seth,” said Dinah. 

“ Ay, ay, we ’re coming,” Seth answered from within, and 
presently appeared stooping under the doorway, being taller 
than usual by the black head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, 
who had caused some delay by demanding to be carried on 
uncle’s shoulder. 

“Better take him on thy arm, Seth,” said Dinah, looking 
fondly at the stout black-eyed fellow. “ He ’s troublesome to 
thee so.” 

“Hay, nay : Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry 
him so for a bit.” A kindness which young Addy acknowl- 
edged by drumming his heels with promising force against 
uncle Seth’s chest. But to walk by Dinah’s side, and be tyr~ 
annized over by Dinah’s and Adam’s children, was uncle Seth’s 
earthly happiness. 

“Where didst see him?” asked Seth, as they walked on 
into the adjoining field. “I can’t catch sight of him any- 
where.” 

“Between the hedges by the roadside,” said Dinah. “I 
saw his hat and his shoulder. There he is again.” 

“ Trust thee for catching sight of him if he ’s anywhere to 
be seen,” said Seth, smiling. “ Thee ’t like poor mother used 
to be. She was always on the look-out for Adam, and could 
see him sooner than other folks, for all her eyes got dim.” 

“ He ’s been longer than he expected,” said Dinah, taking 


EPILOGUE. 555 

Arthur's watch from a small side-pocket and looking at it; 
“it's nigh upon seven now." 

“ Ay, they 'd have a deal to say to one another," said Seth, 
“ and the meeting 'ud touch 'em both pretty closish. Why, 
it 's getting on towards eight years since they parted." 

“ Yes," said Dinah, “ Adam was greatly moved this morning 
at the thought of the change he should see in the poor young 
man, from the sickness he has undergone, as well as the years 
which have changed us all. And the death of the poor wan- 
derer, when she was coming back to us, has been sorrow upon 
sorrow." 

“ See, Addy," said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm 
now, and pointing, “there's father coming — at the far stile." 

Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her 
utmost speed till she clasped her father's leg. Adam patted 
her head and lifted her up to kiss her, but Dinah could see 
the marks of agitation on his face as she approached him, and 
he put her arm within his in silence. 

“ Well, youngster, must I take you ? " he said, trying to 
smile, when Addy stretched out his arms — ready, with the 
usual baseness of infancy, to give up his uncle Seth at once, 
now there was some rarer patronage at hand. 

“ It 's cut me a good deal, Dinah," Adam said at last, when 
they were walking on. 

“ Didst find him greatly altered ? " said Dinah. 

“ Why, he 's altered and yet not altered. I should ha' known 
him anywhere. But his color 's changed, and he looks sadly. 
However, the doctors say he '11 soon be set right in his own 
country air. He 's all sound in th' inside ; it 's only the fever 
shattered him so. But he speaks just the same, and smiles 
at me just as he did when he was a lad. It 's wonderful 
how h*e 's always had just the same sort o' look when he 
smiles." 

“ I 've never seen him smile, poor young man," said Dinah. 

“ But thee wilt see him smile, - to-morrow," said Adam. 
“ He asked after thee the first thing when he began to come 
round, and we could talk to one another. ‘ I hope she is n't 
altered,' he said, ‘ I remember her face so well.' I told him 


556 


ADAM BEDE. 


< no/ ” Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyes that were 
turned up towards his, “ only a bit plumper, as thee ’dst a right 
to be after seven year. ‘I may come and see her to-morrow, 
6iay n’t I ? ’ he said ; ‘ I long to tell her how I ’ve thought of 
her all these years.’ ” 

“ Didst tell him I ’d always used the watch ? ” said Dinah. 

“ Ay ; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never 
saw a woman a bit like thee. ‘ I shall turn Methodist some 
day,’ he said, ‘ when she preaches out of doors, and go to hear 
her.’ And I said, ‘ Nay, sir, you can’t do that, for Conference 
has forbid the women preaching, and she ’s given it up, all but 
talking to the people a bit in their houses.’ ” 

“ Ah,” said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this 
point, “ and a sore pity it was o’ Conference ; and if Dinah had 
seen as I did, we ’d ha’ left the Wesleyans and joined a body 
that ’ud put no bonds on Christian liberty.” 

“ Nay, lad, nay,” said Adam, “ she was right and thee wast 
wrong. There ’s no rule so wise but what it ’s a pity for some- 
body or other. Most o’ the women do more harm nor good 
with their preaching — they ’ve not got Dinah’s gift nor her 
sperrit ; and she ’s seen that, and she thought it right to set 
th’ example o’ submitting, for she ’s not held from other sorts 
o’ teaching. And I agree with her, and approve o’ what she 
did.” 

Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference 
rarely alluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once, said — 
“ Didst remember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne 
the words my uncle and aunt intrusted to thee ? ” 

“ Yes, and he ’s going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the 
day after to-morrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we were talk- 
ing about it, and he would have it as the Colonel must see no- 
body but thee to-morrow : he said — and he ’s in the right of it 
— as it ’ll be bad for him t’ have his feelings stirred with see- 
ing many people one after another. 1 We must get you strong 
and hearty,’ he said, ‘ that ’s the first thing to be done, Arthur, 
and then you shall have your own way. But I shall keep you 
under your old tutor’s thumb till then.’ Mr. Irwine ’s fine and 
joyful at having him home again.” 


EPILOGUE. 


557 


Adam was silent a little while, and then said — 

44 It was very cutting when we first saw one another. He’d 
never heard about poor Hetty till Mr. Irwine met him in Lon- 
don, for the letters missed him on his journey. The first thing 
he said to me, when we ’d got hold o’ one another’s hands was, 
4 I could never do anything for her, Adam — she lived long 
enough for all the suffering — aud I ’d thought so of the time 
when I might do something for her. But you told me the 
truth when you said to me once, 4 4 There ’s a sort of wrong that 
can never be made up for. ” ’ ” 

4 4 Why, there ’s Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard 
gate,” said Seth. 

44 So there is,” said Dinah. 44 Run, Lisbeth, run to meet 
aunt Poyser. Come in, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard 
day for thee,” 


THE EHDo 















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